


The Yellow Poppies

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (mild) assault, Doctor John, HLV fix-it, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, John is a rock, M/M, Mycroft is a good brother, Nightmares, POV: Sherlock Holmes, Set during HLV, Trauma, deleted Magnussen hospital scene, dual villain, series 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is threatened and assaulted in the hospital immediately after having been shot in the heart, first by Mary, then by Magnussen. As he recovers at Baker Street with John and plans the attack on Appledore with Mycroft, he fights to work through the trauma caused by these two visits. Set during <i>His Last Vow</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Yellow Poppies

**The Yellow Poppies**

 

His first thought upon waking is of the agony in his chest. 

Sounds return before his other senses stir, at least beyond his pain receptors: soft, regular beeping, muted chatter, open spaces. A woman crying somewhere in the distance. Sherlock attempts to open his eyes. The light is blinding, too white to make out any detail, and his eyes feel like the Sahara, gritty and dehydrated. He is cold, nude from the waist up and uncovered, and terribly thirsty. All of this is secondary to the acute, burning pain in his chest. He can barely lift his arms but manages to gingerly crawl his fingers along himself to the epicentre of the pain, feels tubes and bandaging coming out of himself and feels suddenly and uncharacteristically afraid. 

(Where is John? John could explain this, tell him what happened in soothingly competent, assured medical terminology, explain the full effects and how long it will take to recover. Normally it’s John who fixes him, stitching him up while cursing Sherlock’s stupidity, the gentleness of his hands belying the sharpness of his words.) 

He tries turning his head, every movement sending tendrils of pain to the wound in his chest. The room is empty. But then his eyes fall on John’s black coat, hung over the back of a chair. Relief floods through him. John was here, then. John will not let him die. Sherlock feels as though he could. He cautiously takes stock of his situation, noting an oxygen level monitor, the various feeds monitoring his vital signs, the intravenous drip, nasal cannula pumping oxygen in through his nose, and – ah – the morphine drip. He is too weak to adjust the dial, but just knowing that it’s there is somewhat comforting. John will turn it up when he returns from wherever he is. (Where is he?) Thoughts of the coffee shop, cafeteria, gift shop all cross his mind. Baker Street, getting him a change of clothes, perhaps. Not that he appears to be wearing anything but his underwear, as a surreptitious glance beneath the sheets proves. He can barely lift them to check, or move his head the requisite three centimetres to glance down along his body. 

(Think, he commands himself. What happened?) His head is full of images: a stairwell, the light too white, too bright, dragging himself up the banister. Mycroft. Molly. Anderson (really? he asks himself). Redbeard. (Stab of nostalgia, of childish love, the sting of loss faded but never gone.) Moriarty. He shivers, then knows which image is coming next. _Mary_. He is not prepared for this, coming over cold as the shock of the image hits. One of the steady beeps begins to increase in frequency. Heart monitor, perhaps. His hands and face break out into cold sweat. 

A nurse hurries into the room, looking with alarm at one of the screens. She doesn’t speak to him or look him in the eye, acknowledge his existence in any way other than something which is making the machine respond in a way that bothers her. She moves his oxygen monitor to a different finger as though he is an inanimate object, a piece of furniture, then frowns at his morphine drip. “That’s too low,” she says, speaking to it. “Try to remain calm. We’ll have the pain under control in a moment.” 

Sherlock doesn’t tell her, cannot possibly articulate that the reason for the spike in his pulse was not related to current levels of pain he is experiencing. The morphine hits his bloodstream at once and turns his tongue into a heavy, sluggish thing which he cannot move. “Could I have some water?” The words emerge garbled and indistinct, but it doesn’t matter; grey twilight is washing over his face and eyes and forcing him back into its grasp before the question has even finished dribbling over his immobile lips. 

*** 

“… Sherlock…” The voice is sing-song and somehow sinister. A singular green eye focuses and blurs again. (Pretty, he thinks, but then it goes blurry again.) The tone grows sharper, an edge to his name this time. “Sherlock. You don’t tell John,” she says. There’s an underscoring of authority to her voice that he’s never heard before. She sounds like a different person. (She is a different person, different from what they all thought. He’d known she was dishonest. He’d always seen that. Not this, though. Never this.) The thought fuzzes around the edges and slides away. 

Sherlock blinks. The distorted shadow of the blades of the overhead fan move over his face like cobwebs, enormous and unnatural. He thinks he can hear the pulse each makes as it passes over his face. The light is too bright, his eyes watering. 

Suddenly her face is directly over his and his legs move instinctively, reflexively, trying to push back, move away. She’s too close, the green eyes huge, eyelashes sharp like the teeth of a Venus fly trap. (She is going to devour him.) Fear lances through his skull like a spear, blinding. He cannot move, cannot escape. “Look at me and tell me you’re not going to tell him,” she says, and there is something grim and even harder in her tone, cold threat clinging to the tone in lieu of authority this time. 

Sherlock blinks several times, his heart battering the inside of his rib cage – his _heart_ – that’s what pains him – Mary shot him. He cannot breathe, cannot get away. He hears himself exhaling heavily past the nasal cannula. His heart is going to explode. He has one moment of blinding, excruciating panic, then everything goes dark as he passes out. 

*** 

When he wakes next, his head is slightly clearer, but the pool of sweat that collected at the small of his back is still there, the sheets damp and cold beneath him. 

*** 

Finally John is there, but he’s not alone: there are several other doctors there and they’re all discussing Sherlock, talking about his heart, the wound, something about a valve, a ventricle… John is saying something insistent about a bullet and another doctor is stonewalling him, saying that the police have it. 

“… not the police,” John is arguing. “They never could have processed it that quickly. Did you see ID? Was it a tall, thin man in a three-piece suit, with an umbrella?”

There are hesitations at this, and Sherlock thinks, with a small burst of relief, _Mycroft_. Mycroft will have put this together, then, found out that it was Mary who shot him. But they cannot tell John. Not just yet. Not until he knows what to make of it, what to do. Suddenly he sees Mary’s face in his mind’s eye again and breaks out into the shivers, his teeth clattering together. 

This gets John’s attention, finally, and he appears at the bedrails. “Hey,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. His hand is gentle where it comes to rest on Sherlock’s wrist, light as a butterfly. (Morphine, Sherlock reminds himself. Right.) “Are you okay? Cold? Are you in pain?” 

“No, yes, and yes,” Sherlock says, the words coming out in a hoarse croak. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he was shot. He remembers it now: Mary, dressed like an assassin, the darkness of Magnussen’s flat and the fear in his voice. The mirror behind him that failed to shatter. _Claire-de-la-lune_ in the air. (She wears too much perfume. Stupid. Unless she means it as her signature or some such nonsense. Would a professional killer be as egotistical as that, or is Mary really foolish enough to have left such a telling trace of her presence?) He shivers again, her giant eyes appearing in front of his face again for a split second. 

“Sorry.” John is apologising and Sherlock doesn’t know what for this time. The back of his hand touches Sherlock’s upper chest, his arms, as though taking his temperature that way. “You _are_ cold. We can’t put anything on your chest, though.” His eyes find Sherlock’s at last, and they’re sober, troubled. “You’ve been shot,” he says. “Do you remember?” 

Sherlock hesitates. If he denies it, John and the other fool doctors hanging back near the window will suspect he has trauma to the brain. But if he admits it, John will ask him who it was who shot him. “Yes,” he says distantly, averting his eyes. “I remember.”

“Sherlock – ” The pitch of John’s voice rises in urgency. “Can you remember who did it?” He lowers his voice now. “They’re telling me that someone already came for the bullet that was in your heart. I suspect it was your brother, but I’ve already tried calling him and he’s not answering my calls.”

Relief. At least Mycroft has had _that_ much sense. “Can I have some water?” Sherlock asks, evading the question. 

John sounds immediately contrite. “Of course,” he says, and goes to get some. He returns with a plastic glass and holds it to Sherlock’s lips, putting a strong arm behind his back to help him sit up a little. The groan of pain escapes his lips before he can prevent it. “Easy now,” John says, and the very calm and authority of his tone helps, somehow. Water slips out of his weakened lips and runs in a cold rivulet down his chest. John brings up a corner of sheet, avoiding the bandaging in the centre and left side of Sherlock’s chest and wipes at the corner of his mouth, as though he’s a child. His professionalism removes any sting of condescension, though. John tips the glass again, waiting for Sherlock to stop swallowing before easing him down again. The motion brings his face down close to Sherlock’s and he smiles a bit, gently extracting his arm from under Sherlock’s back. “All right?” he asks. 

Sherlock doesn’t want him to move away; he’s warm. (Though that’s not the only reason why.) “I’m cold,” he says, not quite complaining. 

John’s eyes are apologetic and so is his voice. “I know,” he says sympathetically. “I’ll ask them to turn the heat up in here, or get you a space heater, maybe. We can’t have anything on your chest just yet, though.” 

Sherlock accepts this in silent frustration. He’s been cold before and ignored it without any issue whatsoever. But this time he’s frightened, unduly so, and it makes the cold worse. John sits down in the chair next to the bed with an air of having done so many times before already. “How long?” Sherlock asks, his voice still rusty despite the water. 

“Since the shot?” John asks, correctly interpreting his question. “Two days now.”

Sherlock wants to ask where John was when Mary came, wants to tell him not to leave him alone. Instead, he says, “Tell me about the shot.”

John glances over his shoulder at the other two doctors. “Would we be able to have a bit of privacy?” he asks, very politely, but it’s really not a request. (Something warm glows in the pit of Sherlock’s belly. Though possibly that’s merely hunger.) They acquiesce, sounding slightly surprised, but neither of them question John and Sherlock is forcibly reminded of what a large person John actually is when he wants to be. He hides it well, disguising it in quiet, stay-at-home-ness, in reorganising the books every few months and making Sunday roasts, but – no. Wait. That was all before, wasn’t it. Long ago. Practically ancient history now. John has lived with Mary for over a year now. _Mary_. The warmth fades and Sherlock shivers again. 

The door closes behind the doctors and Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “Is this classified information?” he asks lightly, though it’s not a very good joke. There’s something strange here and John must know it, too, though surely he can’t know that it was Mary… 

“No,” John says shortly. “I just… wanted to tell you about it without an audience. It’s… Sherlock…” he trails off. 

Sherlock looks at him, waiting, feeling his eyebrows draw together. John, completely unexpectedly, takes his right hand in both of his, looking down at it. His face is pained. Sherlock doesn’t know how to react to this, what to say. (Does he know it was Mary after all, then? Surely she wouldn’t have _told_ him.) 

But it’s not this. “You – nearly died,” John says, and it comes out only just above a whisper, his voice cracking, not looking at him. “It was – I thought we’d lost you. The surgeons thought they’d lost you. You went into asystole. For almost an hour.”

“Asystole?” Sherlock repeats the unfamiliar word, while trying to process the unfamiliar sensation of John’s hands. (He tries to ignore the immediate effect this has on him. It’s not at all unpleasant. Just the opposite, in fact. He feels it acutely.)

John nods once, quickly, just a duck of his chin. “Yeah,” he says. “When you flatline. Your heart had stopped an hour before. They were keeping it going with CPR, but then even that failed. They did absolutely everything they could have, but… your heart gave out. You had lost a lot of blood despite the bullet blocking most of the flow, and the shock meant that your blood pressure had dropped beyond the saving point. It – ” He stops suddenly, clears his throat gruffly. Then again, and Sherlock sees that he is blinking, his fingers tightening. He instinctively tightens his own rubbery-feeling fingers to the best of his ability in response, though how he is in any position to comfort John is beyond his knowing. John swallows hard. “Sher – I don’t know how you did it. I don’t know how you made it, but you saved yourself, somehow. You came back. I thought you had died, but you came back.”

Sherlock sees Moriarty, sees the padded dungeon, feels the heat of Moriarty’s breath on his face, the stench of it stinging his eyes. He remembers. _John Watson is definitely in danger._ Sees Mary in her mauve dress with its wallpaper leaf pattern so similar to the one in the stairwell at Baker Street, her fingers intertwined backwards, her head tilted, eyes following him eerily, unwavering, unblinkingly. _That WIFE._ “John – ” suddenly he cannot breathe, and one of the machines starts beeping in an accelerando of alarm. A flush of heat sweeps through him and he feels faint. 

John is on his feet, saying his name loudly, lowering the bedrail with one hand, the other still holding Sherlock’s. “Don’t panic,” he says, though his voice is unsteady. He leans down, avoiding touching Sherlock’s chest, but his arm comes around Sherlock’s back and pulls him up a little again, his right hand still holding Sherlock’s as though they are shaking hands. Sherlock manages to lift his left arm to cling to John’s shoulder, breathing raggedly into it as the sudden panic attack passes, sweat standing out on his forehead, and that’s how the nurse finds them when she comes in to investigate the source of the beeping: John bent over him in an awkward embrace, barking at her that they’re fine and to please close the door after her, his voice echoing in Sherlock’s skull. It’s fine. It’s good; he doesn’t want anyone here but John. 

“Don’t leave me alone,” he mumbles into John’s neck. 

When the beeping slows, John releases him carefully. “I won’t,” he says, and Sherlock knows that his word is a promise. He trusts John. “I’m sorry,” John says, looking pained. He sits down again and takes Sherlock’s hand with both of his, as before. “I didn’t mean to upset you or scare you. I should have thought. I just – God, I’m so glad you’re here, Sherlock.” 

He turns his head and their eyes meet, John’s mouth set in an unhappy, hard line, clamped shut as though to prevent any more undue emotion from leaking out of it. Sherlock breathes carefully around the pain in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. 

John’s hands tighten. “Don’t you dare,” he says. “Or I’ll come after you and drag you back.”

Sherlock does not tell him that John already saved him this time. As he has so many other times. 

John glances at a monitor. “Are you in pain?” He looks at Sherlock’s face, gauging for himself. “You are,” he states before Sherlock can answer. 

Sherlock makes a vague sound of affirmation. 

“I’m turning up your morphine,” John decides. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Sherlock wants to say something, but the morphine steals through his blood like tendrils of fog and thickens his tongue. Sleep takes him before he can even decide what it was that he wanted to say. 

*** 

The morphine makes him dream strangely. It’s unpleasant, a mixture of images and memories tangled together in a thick mash of his subconscious’ most confused offerings. Mary’s singular eye appears over and over again, and when he sees them both, the fear spikes into nightmare. He can hear his own pulse thudding in his ears. Perhaps that’s a good sign, he thinks drowsily at one point. He was shot in the heart. Good that it’s still beating. Mary meant to end that. (Did she really mean to end it? He thinks, tries to make sense of this. Yes. She must have. Her sinister visit seems proof of intent, doesn’t it?) Sherlock’s thoughts slow like leaves falling into mud and getting stuck there. 

The grey half-consciousness is hazy around him when he senses rather than sees a passing shape darken the light coming in the windows at his right. Like a shark at the aquarium, he thinks vaguely, as the shadow stretches and elongates itself over him, sketching over his bare front before the door opens, inevitably. It’s like the nightmare where something is in pursuit but you find that you cannot run. (Again, it’s happening again, just as it happened with Mary.) He is too sluggish to move, blinking and trying to wake himself up. 

“They’re not _all_ from me,” Magnussen tells him in facetious levity. He turns and closes the door behind him. 

_What?_ Why is Magnussen here? Sherlock watches him warily, thinking of the Baker Street fireplace, of John’s explosion of wrath upon Magnussen’s departure. What is he doing here now? (Where is John?) Sherlock’s pulse begins to accelerate, though it’s still sluggish from the morphine. He squints, trying to get Magnussen’s blurred form to focus. 

Magnussen assumes the air of a tour guide, indicating. “The struggling carnations are from Scotland Yard.” He turns to another vase. “And the single rose is from… ‘W’,” he pronounces eloquently after bending to read the card, as though Sherlock should care. All right, he hadn’t realised (or cared) that the Woman sent a flower, but what does it matter? What does a flower matter when he’s been shot in the heart? What do flowers ever matter? Magnussen continues. “And the black wreaths? C-block, Pentonville.” His voice turns wry and amused. “I’m not sure the intent was entirely kindly.” 

He crosses the small room to Sherlock’s side and sits down in John’s chair. He lays his clammy hands on Sherlock’s arm and begins to caress it lightly. The morphine is making thinking difficult, speech impossible; this feels half like a dream. A bad dream. But he can feel it, the touch. The coldness, the damp. He would shudder if his nervous system wasn’t mostly dead to the world. 

“Oh, I covet your hands, Mr Holmes,” Magnussen says, almost lovingly. “Though since you’ve survived, I suppose you get to keep them.” He lifts the arm at the wrist. “Look at them! The musician’s hands.” He removes the oxygen monitor, which John moved to the right side some hours earlier. Magnussen is caressing his hand obscenely. “An artist’s,” he says, and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the back of Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock’s pulse amplifies in his ears, beginning to rocket forward. He is awake enough now that he can maintain his wary focus on Magnussen’s face, though the outlines continue to waver. 

“Or a woman’s?” Magnussen mocks, fixing Sherlock with a wide-eyed look of insolence. 

(He knows, Sherlock thinks. It doesn’t matter that his dormant sexuality has barely seen the light of day, no evidence for anyone to draw upon and use against him, yet Magnussen knows.) He just manages to pull his hand free, where it flops back to the mattress like a dead thing. 

Magnussen lets it go, rubbing his long fingers together. “Apologies for the dampness of my touch.” He sits back, gaze still affixed to Sherlock’s face, like a shark watching its prey. “You’ll get used to it.” 

Sherlock’s pulse is faster yet. There is a threat there, and one which he cannot fight against, only squirm away from in discomfort, and at the moment he is incapable of doing even that. Magnussen’s implication that he will be experiencing his touch again at any point in the future is intolerable. The air hisses past the nasal cannula. 

Magnussen continues in a conversational tone. “Having shot you, the woman you know as Mary Watson left without killing me.” He replaces the oxygen monitor precisely on Sherlock’s middle finger. “Which is odd,” he remarks, “because that was the reason she came.” 

Sherlock’s eyes drift closed. He cannot control the spiralling pulse of his heart; evasion is his only tactic, and besides, the morphine is whispering, beckoning him back into its safer shadows. 

Magnussen gets up and bends down, his face directly above, his nose nearly touching Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s heart begins to thunder in his ears. “I didn’t pass on her identity to the police,” he says softly, almost crooning. His face is distorted, too close, his eyes gigantic. Mocking. “Information like that is just too…” he trails off, the tone of his voice almost sultry, and now his nose is pressing into Sherlock’s. Sherlock is terrified that Magnussen is going to kiss him, his eyes watering as he stares desperately into Magnussen’s dead grey eyes, unable to look away, his pulse fluttering in his throat, his limbs too heavy to move. He is going to have a heart attack on top of having been shot. “…valuable to be shared,” Magnussen finishes, finally backing off a little. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

His voice begins to sound distant and hollow as Sherlock’s consciousness slips away, the panic attack rising swiftly around his face now, like wings flapping in it as his oxygen supply runs too short, all of his perceptions weirdly heightened while being simultaneously horribly dulled under the morphine. He cannot breathe. He is going to drown. He can hear the furious beeping of the heart monitor as he slips below the surface and passes out. 

*** 

He wakes suddenly, his legs twitching, but John is there in his chair and the first thing he feels is relief. His instinct is to look around wildly, but he remembers his caution before he can do so; if he tells John about Magnussen, he will be forced to explain Mary, and that cannot happen just yet. He fumbles with a sluggish arm for the morphine dial to check it. 

“I turned it down a bit,” John says, before Sherlock can do anything. “I’m sorry. I thought it seemed a little high. And you sounded like you were having nightmares. Are you in pain?”

“No,” Sherlock says without thinking about it. He wants the morphine down so that he can think. He turns it even further down. 

“Careful with that,” John says warningly, and Sherlock has a fleeting sensation of gratitude that John is not going to be pedantic about the old addiction, at least not now, when it counts. “Don’t go too low.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, shrugging it off. 

John studies him. “You’re not,” he corrects carefully, watching Sherlock’s face. “You had another panic attack, they said. A bad one.”

Sherlock inhales deeply and looks away. 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is gentle. (Too gentle, damn it.) “You’ve been shot. There’s bound to be some trauma. It’s perfectly normal. It will go away on its own. But it might help if you talked about it.”

The suggestion is kindly made and meant, but it’s obviously impossible. “Tell me more about the shot,” Sherlock says, not meeting John’s eyes. “Where the bullet hit. What sort of damage it caused. How long I’ll have to stay here. All of that.”

John’s pause is long enough that Sherlock knows that he hasn’t lost interest in talking about the panic attack, but that he thinks he should leave it alone, at least for the time being. That, or he is hesitant to speak about the shot, particularly given that the first time he did, he thinks it incurred the first panic attack. “Fine,” John says after a moment. He sits back in his chair and crosses one knee over the other, going into what Sherlock privately thinks of as his professional mode, steepling his fingers together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “The bullet hit you in the inferior vena cava,” he says. “It’s the second largest vein in the heart. It also shattered the floating rib on the right side and several of the bone shards hit your liver and had to be extracted. A small piece of the liver was removed, but you’ll be fine without it. The bone fragments have all been removed as well. You lost a great deal of blood during the surgery, particularly during the bone extraction and had to have a transfusion.”

“Did I?” Sherlock feels his brows come together. “I don’t remember any of this.”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re just lucky you had a donor on hand,” John tells him, his voice a bit brusque. 

Sherlock looks at him and understands. “You,” he says factually. John doesn’t deny it, just gazes steadily back at him. “Thank you,” Sherlock says, feeling slightly unsure of himself, as though this is a larger moment than he quite knows how to deal with. “I forgot that we have the same blood type.”

“Luckily for you, I didn’t.” John crosses his legs the other way and changes the subject. “Listen, I’m sorry that Mary hasn’t been here. She came once a couple of days ago but she said you were asleep. I guess the clinic has been quite busy and she’s a bit worn out. Probably worried about you, I’d say. She did say to pass on her love.”

Sherlock breathes carefully and wills himself not to see the eye, or both eyes. “How long was I asleep this last time? What time is it?”

John checks his watch. “It’s just coming on seven in the evening,” he says. “You woke briefly during the panic attack, they told me, but you were sedated to keep your heart rate under control. I arrived about an hour later and you’ve been sleeping since then. I’d say it happened around one in the afternoon or so. Why?” 

His eyes are watching carefully, wanting information about the trigger, Sherlock knows. “Where were you?”

John’s gaze drops apologetically. “Sorry,” he says at once. “I went home for a moment, just to get a couple of things and that. I thought you would be all right, but I should have checked with you first. I’m sorry. Is that why – ?”

“No,” Sherlock says, his eyes sliding to the ceiling instead. “It wasn’t that. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Okay,” John says, too quickly. A brief silence falls. 

“Would you stay with me?” Sherlock asks. It’s very quiet; the admission that he does not want to be here alone must have clear intent to John. 

“Overnight?” John asks, confirming. When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he says, “Yeah, I can do that. That’s why I got a change of clothes and that. I wondered if you might want me to. Now that you’re in recovery, they’ll be paying less attention to you than they should, and I’d rather keep an eye on you, anyway.” He stops, hesitating, then asks his question. “Is it that you don’t feel safe here?”

Sherlock thinks about this for a long moment, then says, as neutrally as possible, “If you’re here, it will be fine.”

“Okay.” John reaches over and puts a hand on Sherlock’s wrist again, the same one that Magnussen touched. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

Sherlock has to work not to shudder and pull his hand away. He cannot answer. He feels sick. 

*** 

John is sleeping in the camp bed they brought in for him, snoring gently when Sherlock wakes around dawn. The hospital is still quiet, or as quiet as they get, at any rate, but there is pale grey light coming in the window. Sherlock inclines the bed into a sitting position and has a look at the flowers in the room for the first time since Magnussen’s unwelcome visit. There are a number of generic-looking bouquets. He doubts very much that Magnussen sent any of them. One bunch of straggling daffodils is almost certainly from Molly, while the white hydrangeas are definitely from his parents’ gardens. A Sainsbury bouquet has Mrs Hudson’s taste all over it – bright gerberas with a mix of other, less interesting flowers. The single rose. Of course. (Will she never give up?) The black wreaths and the wilting carnations. But there, toward the door, is something else that catches his eye, unnoticed before, and conspicuously uncommented upon by Magnussen. A vase with two yellow poppies, one just past the height of its brief bloom, the other in full bloom. He can see from where he is that there is no card. Yellow poppies. 

Suddenly he wants his phone. He wants to look up the significance of yellow poppies. The Victorians assigned significance to every flower, and not only the Victorians – many societies have used flowers as symbolic references, he knows. Poppies. Why poppies? Why yellow? Is there a significance to the colour? He wants his phone. He looks at John, sees the bulge of a mobile phone in the right pocket of John’s jeans and knows that he cannot possibly reach it without setting off at least half a dozen alarms from the machines around him. “John,” he says quietly, wondering how deeply John is sleeping. 

There is no response. Very well; he will have to content himself to wait until John wakes. Where is his own phone? Where are the rest of his things? It occurs to him that if it is at least day four of his hospital sojourn and yet the first day that he has thought to ask, he really has been out of it. Too much so. He checks the dial on the morphine and turns it down. He needs to be able to think. 

No card suggests an anonymous sender who wanted to convey a message with the flowers themselves. One fading, one fresh: newer, he thinks. Or perhaps the sender deliberately chose two flowers of different stages? Strange. (Unlikely.) Yellow has often been associated with fortune. Though the fact that poppies are both poisonous and a source of opium seems like both threat and dig at the same time. Sherlock sighs. Threat implies either Mary or Magnussen. He does not know which would be more likely to send him poisonous flowers after having been shot. Magnussen’s floral commentary yesterday would make him seem well-positioned to be the culprit, yet the style is subtler, which makes him think of Mary. Poison is a woman’s weapon, at least statistically speaking, though Mary is hardly one’s average woman and has many more weapons than poison at her disposal, but the sly gesture of placing poison directly in his hospital room under the guise of a sun-bright get-well gesture speaks volumes. Definitely Mary. A reminder of her implied threat, then. _You don’t tell him. You don’t tell John._

Or else. She didn’t say it, but he heard it nonetheless. He turns his head to the side to look at John, asleep facing him. He looks younger in sleep, Sherlock thinks. _John._ What will this do, once John finds out it was Mary? What will this do to him? To them? Though _them_ has been an uncertain concept since his return, hasn’t it. The day he stepped off the roof of Bart’s Hospital, they were best friends and partners, John’s anger that day notwithstanding. They had been an insular group of two and two only. After the previous Christmas, John had stopped going on dates, stopped trying to bring a temporary third person into the picture, stopped trying to deny that Sherlock was the primary person in his life. Sherlock had noticed but never commented, not wanting to upset the balance. He hadn’t given it all that much thought in terms of what that would mean, if anything, regarding the two of them. If they had said aloud, _yes, you are the most important person in my life and we would both prefer to keep it that way, to dispense with third parties and just be the two of us, against the rest of the world_. He hadn’t thought enough. 

During his two-year absence, he’d thought about it more. Considerably more. It had been a shock to him to realise how dependent he had become on John’s regular, steady, reliable presence in his life after only eighteen months. John’s girlfriends had never seriously interfered with that, though Sherlock had always preferred the times between them, when there was no one else to compete for John’s time and attention. Put that way, it sounds rather childish, he knows, as though John had been a plaything he’d been loath to share. John’s absence – or rather, Sherlock’s self-imposed exile, had shown him otherwise. He’d found himself thinking about John constantly when his focus would slide, wondering what he was doing. If he still missed Sherlock, ever thought about him. He had never given voice, even within his own head, to what he wanted to see happen, precisely, when he returned. He hadn’t known what he was hoping for. Not exactly. But when he’d seen Mary’s photograph in Mycroft’s file, the receipt for the ring John had purchased, whatever that something was had flickered and died, carefully hidden from his brother in facetious comments about the moustache. 

He hadn’t managed to kill it entirely, however, or John’s rejection would not have hurt as much as it had. He’d disguised that, too, more or less, but it hadn’t changed the way it felt. He’d wondered what the point of coming back to London was, if John was not going to be a part of his life, and that had shocked him, too, seeing how little crime-solving weighed against John’s companionship when thrown into direct relief that way. But then John had forgiven him, never mind that it was only through a trick. John had _wanted_ to forgive him, needed a way to do it, and Sherlock had provided it, desperately needing to hear it, to know that they were definitely still friends. 

He hadn’t realised the rest until the wedding.

Mycroft had always chided him as a child about being a slow learner in too many areas. He’d told their protesting parents that Sherlock’s areas of brilliance would always be compensated for in other areas of incompetence, and he’d never been wrong. Sherlock’s feelings for John had been a blind spot, confused in his own lack of experience with friendship in general, with the behaviour of two people who have come to know one another intimately. He’d thought it was merely friendship until the Mayfly Man. He’d dreaded the wedding, but never fully comprehended why, not one hundred percent, until that moment. He’d stood there, his champagne flute slipping from his fingers, the deduction of the murderer and the greater implication of the entire wedding turning sour in his mouth as he’d realised he was standing in the middle of his best friend’s wedding and that he did not, in fact, want John to be married at all. 

He’d buried himself in the Magnussen case instead, playing on the surface at dating Janine, curling up on a cold mattress in Isaac Whitney’s drug den of choice in time to meet John again, hoping that his altered perceptions would at least keep his feelings for John off his face by the time John was to find him there and “rescue” him. John should have thanked him; he adores rescuing Sherlock, though he’ll never admit it. Nothing since Afghanistan has given him a greater sense of purpose than in defending and protecting Sherlock. 

Mary will hardly need protection, will she. Sherlock sighs, still watching John, and wonders again what he is to do about this. 

*** 

John wakes a few hours later, yawning and stretching and rubbing a hand over his stubble. Sherlock watches him wake, pretending that he isn’t, and turns a page of the newspaper someone brought him. It’s less than thirty seconds before John sits up, looking at him. “How are you doing?” he asks, his voice scratchy. 

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound. 

“How’s the pain?” John presses. He gets out of the camp bed and comes over, checking the morphine dial (still low) and Sherlock’s vital signs. 

“Fine.”

“Sherlock.” John gives him his best _don’t give me that_ face. 

“More or less,” Sherlock concedes. 

“That should be a little higher,” John says, frowning at the dial. 

“I needed to think.”

John sighs and doesn’t argue with him. “All right. Do you need the loo?”

He is offering to help Sherlock hobble over to the toilet in the corner of the room, wheeling all of the monitors with him, as he has done before, sparing Sherlock the indignity of needing a bedpan. These excursions are the only times he is permitted to leave the bed, and – painful as they are – he looks forward to them almost pathetically. Staying in the same position all the time is supremely dull and becomes uncomfortable to the back in particular after awhile. “Please,” Sherlock requests, and John comes over to help him get up. Sherlock keeps himself still as John arranges the many cords and wires that need to come with them, silently drinking in John’s proximity and the way he smells after sleep as he moves around Sherlock, disconnecting things and tucking them away, then gently pulling Sherlock up into his arms and getting him onto his feet. The room swirls as he stands, and he is cold despite the small heater John had them bring in, wearing only his underwear. 

“Okay, let me just get this, here…” John says, getting the IV drip unhooked from the bedrails. He puts the stand with the drip in Sherlock’s left hand. “Hold that,” he instructs, and gets an arm around Sherlock’s back, taking his right arm. He turns his face and smiles at Sherlock, a sunny smile that is more than just professional care and makes Sherlock’s heart beat too quickly. 

He nods in response and John leads him in a pained shuffle to the bathroom. It’s small, only just large enough for himself and the drip. John gets him inside and closes the door behind him, promising to be nearby. It’s slightly less humiliating given that it’s John, Sherlock thinks as he braces himself against the wall as he relieves himself. Nevertheless. He manages to wash his hands with minimal torque to his chest and carefully splashes some cold water onto his face. He needs a shower. A nurse has promised that he can have one today, with supervision. He would prefer John’s supervision, but that could prove disastrous in some respects. Sherlock firmly shuts down this line of thought (also dangerous in his barely-clad state) and gets the bathroom door open. 

John comes forward immediately to collect him for the short trip back to the bed. It hurts every time he moves and John is scolding him about the morphine again. By the time Sherlock is back in bed, all of his cords rearranged and untangled again, the sheet tucked around his waist, he can’t protest when John turns up the dial. He drifts off, thinking that he cannot possibly be expected to make a decision about Mary when he can barely urinate without assistance. The thought makes him uneasy in the extreme. 

*** 

“…I’ll give your love to John and Mary,” Janine says, and Sherlock knows that the time has come to make a decision, ready or otherwise. 

He lowers the morphine and closes his eyes and sees Mary in his mind, dressed as she was in that Baker Street-patterned mauve dress, the vintage hairstyle in preparation for John’s expected proposal (has to have been expected, he thinks; otherwise her hair is rarely well styled at all, save for the wedding day). He hears the threat from the day of her visit again. _You don’t tell him. You don’t tell John._

 _Liar_ , Sherlock thinks. _So… Mary Watson. Who are you?_ He walks around her in his mind’s eye and her eyes follow him, unsettling, suspicious, wary. But he gets too close – he turns and there she is, dressed in her wedding dress again, her eyes hard and cold as she fires the gun he did not know that she had concealed. Is this subliminal? Did she have a gun at the wedding? No, stupid, stupid – too obvious, Sherlock thinks. The symbolism is plain enough: Mary’s wedding to John was like a metaphorical shot in the heart. It was the day of her triumph, her having officially won John away from him. As she’d reminded him, not particularly subtly, _It’s my wedding day!_ All under the smooth guise of friendship, of course, of the playful tease with hidden barbs. Sherlock knows these barbs, knows how obvious they are. He’s been on the receiving end of them all his life – these insults, these words intended to cause pain, so thinly-disguised as to be laughable. Why not just state oneself plainly, Sherlock used to wonder, but he’s come to learn that people like thinking themselves “clever” this way, as though he can’t tell what they’re really saying. That he, of all people, wouldn’t have known! Of course he knows. As he knew precisely what Mary meant when she said that. Not caring about the attention John was paying to his former commander, not caring about the friendship with Sherlock that everyone else in the free world considers themselves qualified to question. She knew that she had won. That’s twice she has shot Sherlock in the heart now. 

But _why_ remains the question. Why shoot him, when, as even Magnussen pointed out, she had gone there to kill Magnussen? It makes no sense. Surely she could have appealed to Sherlock to keep her secrets. She’s intelligent enough to have hidden this from him – at least the precise nature of it – this long. She would have known to appeal to his care for John, if not for her. _Don’t tell him. He’d never be able to handle it. It would only hurt him. Do you want to see him hurting, Sherlock? After all you’ve already put him through? Is that kind?_ He can hear the exact arguments she would have made. Only she never made them. And she apologised in advance, true, but there was no real apology in her tone. No emotion. No shock of betrayal, as there had been in his, struggling to believe that his best friend’s wife, whose wedding he had just spent six months planning, was pointing a gun at him. And so he had appealed to that fact – _No, Mrs Watson, you won’t_ and the emotion-based appeal had had no effect unless to fan her annoyance and make her pull the trigger all the faster. 

She meant for him to die. Of this, he is almost certain. Rather than take the risk of him spilling her secrets to John. That became more important to her than keeping Magnussen’s silence. But this he does not understand: Magnussen could still expose her at any moment. She scaled a building – pregnant, which indicates both premeditated plans as well as serious determination – and broke into his office, assaulting two people including the maid of honour at her own wedding. Failing to find Magnussen in the office, she then hunted him down in his penthouse and had him on his knees at gunpoint when Sherlock had stumbled in upon the scene. Clearly she does not trust Sherlock in the slightest. She could have turned to him as a friend and explained her predicament, asked for help. This notion evidently held no water for Mary. Perhaps, he thinks, she has always seen that he never fully trusted her. Perhaps she knows that there is nothing that would ever induce him to stake his loyalty to her above John. 

She would be right on that count, Sherlock thinks. The only question remaining is how to tell John – that is, once he is certain that Mary did intend for him to die.

With the morphine all the way off, Sherlock concentrates for an hour and devises a plan. He needs several things: clothing, Bill Wiggins, Anderson to remember the place he once followed Sherlock (twice, but Sherlock was uncharacteristically kind enough not to confront him about the second one; Anderson’s crush is strange but pitiable), his phone, and a bottle of _Claire-de-la-lune_. Lucky for him, Bill is a film school drop-out but still possesses an impressive array of film equipment, including a projector that Sherlock has already borrowed once for the slide show at John and Mary’s wedding. 

He also needs an escape route. Sherlock’s eyes fall on the window and he knows at once that this is out of the question; there is no way he could manage the climb in his current condition. Leaving the hospital at all will be a strain. He adds morphine to the mental list of things that he needs. Then, with great difficulty and annoyingly large amounts of time, Sherlock gets himself out of bed and onto his feet unassisted for the first time in a week. He determines grimly that he is able to do it. Walk without help. He wobbles around the room with half his cords unhooked and finds clothes that belong to him in the cupboard. Good. His phone is in there as well, which is a relief. He takes this, tests the window for his planned deception, then gets back into bed with difficulty and no small amount of pain and presses the call button. 

A nurse comes after a few minutes. Not the silent one who always ignores him, but one of the others. When she inquires, Sherlock puts on a pathetic face and explains that he got his cords tangled when he went to the loo and would she mind sorting them for him? She does so, less efficiently than John but still fairly quickly. “Was there anything else?” she asks. 

Sherlock bites his lip as though hesitating. “Yes,” he admits. “My feet are a bit cold. My – friend brought some socks from my flat but I don’t think I can quite get them on by myself…” 

“Right-o,” the nurse says briskly and goes to the cupboard. “These ones here?” She holds up a rolled ball of socks and when Sherlock sheepishly assents, she comes back and gets them onto Sherlock’s feet. “There you go,” she says, patting a socked foot. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, the heartfelt gratitude only mostly feigned. Socks would have been impossible. Everything else will be difficult enough. 

She leaves and Sherlock gets his feet under the sheet and out of sight and waits for an opportunity, a time when he knows that John will be out of the room for a long enough period of time to get away. At the moment he is getting a coffee from the terrible café downstairs and will be back at any moment, likely prepared to be sympathetic about the papers and Janine’s invented stories. Sherlock settles himself to wait.

(He hates waiting.)

*** 

The confrontation is every bit as painful as expected in every sense. He has confirmed for himself that Mary meant to kill him. _You didn’t hit the middle of the coin. Nobody’s perfect_ , he’d said, and she had failed to correct him. And she in turn has confirmed for herself that Sherlock would never have chosen to side with her over John. So: now it is clear. They both know where they stand: neither one trusts the other and it is understood that from here on in all overtures of “friendship” are to be read as insincere. John is the pivotal point now, and for his own sake, Sherlock must convince him not to leave her. So he says the lines he devised, his physical and metaphysical hearts both burning throughout, then collapses as he delivers the last of them as the paramedics catch him and strap him quickly, carefully down and put him in the back of an ambulance. The last thing he remembers before the darkness takes him again is the sound of John’s voice and the knowledge that John is there beside him. Nothing else matters, as long as John is with him. Sounds fade; an oxygen mask is clapped over his face, the ambulance jolting. 

He got through it. The revelation. Touch of dramatic flair, too. Nothing else he can do for the time being. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets go. 

*** 

Mycroft is there when he wakes, sitting in John’s chair. It’s a different room, but the chair is nonetheless John’s. 

Sherlock wakes slowly, his eyelids weighing ten stone each, or so it feels. His mouth is dry. He blinks a few times before turning his head and noticing his brother, who came only once during the previous week, with their parents and therefore saying nothing. The scowl lines between his brows had remained entrenched throughout the visit but he said nothing about the shot and did not prod Sherlock to do so, either. Their mother had, of course, clearly disbelieving Sherlock’s evasion, but his father had only squeezed his ankle and looked worried while Mycroft hovered behind them like a shadow, baleful and silent. Sherlock moves his tongue to the roof of his mouth and attempts to work some moisture into it. “Water,” he manages, his voice a croak. 

It’s short but Mycroft understands and heaves himself to his feet, hooking his umbrella over the arm of the chair. He goes to the sink in the small bathroom and fills a plastic glass, then brings it over to Sherlock. The lines between his eyes are there again. “Are you lucid?” he asks, putting the glass on the tray attached to the bedrail and swivelling it to cross Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock lifts an arm with effort and notes with distaste that he has been reconnected to an intravenous drip and everything else that he was on before, and that the morphine drip is low. “Did you turn this down?” 

Mycroft’s scowl is answer enough. “Drink that,” he says, meaning the water. 

“Where’s John?” He needs to know. Needs to know that John is safe, and he needs to see him, see what sort of condition he is in, now that he knows. Needs to know for his own sake that John is close by. 

“You are lucid,” Mycroft says dryly. “That, or you’re still asleep.” He lowers his backside back into John’s chair. 

Sherlock takes a sip of water, his arm trembling with the effort, and concentrates on not dribbling it down his bare chest. “What do you mean?” he asks, after a successful swallow. 

Mycroft crosses one knee over the other. “You asked several times while you were asleep as well.” The customary smugness is toned down under the weight of his frown, however. The oily smile fades rapidly. “What were you thinking, Sherlock?”

Sherlock, focusing on another careful sip, uses this to stall. “In what sense?”

“In leaving the hospital!” Mycroft is angry all of a sudden. “Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?”

Sherlock scowls. “I didn’t shoot myself, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

“No. I’m well aware of who shot you.” Mycroft’s eyes are sober when Sherlock’s meet his. In that look Sherlock sees that Mycroft has indeed been doing his homework. 

“Then why has it taken you so long to say something?” Sherlock asks. “I assume it was you who came for the bullet before the police could.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock looks around for a clock, which he immediately regrets, the pain causing him to gasp and want to clutch at his heart, only he also has no desire to touch his chest, his hands stopping mid-air and then grasping at the bedrails instead as the spasm wracks his body. He needs more morphine, but he needs to be able to think clearly. The pain is agonising. 

Mycroft watches impassively throughout, unimpressed. “You brought that on yourself,” he remarks blandly. “If you were looking for a clock, there isn’t one. The current time is eight forty-three in the evening. And to answer your – repeated – earlier question, John is in the cafeteria eating dinner, or whatever might pass for it in this establishment.” He delivers this as though the hospital is a four-star restaurant that he personally feels is overrated. “He should be back soon, though I did ask him to give us some time. We need to talk.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, the aftershocks of his unwise movement still lingering unpleasantly. “I suppose we do.”

Mycroft favours him with a grim smile and reaches into his briefcase for a folder which he withdraws but leaves closed on his lap. “I’ve been working,” he says. “First: you were being watched here. There is a nurse, a friend of Mary’s. Short brown hair, chin-length, approximately one hundred and sixty-three centimetres in height.”

The silent one, the one who always ignored him. “Yes,” Sherlock says. This fits. 

“Connections to two people of your acquaintance,” Mycroft informs him. “Mary Morstan… and James Moriarty.”

Sherlock processes this. “Ergo…”

“Ergo Ms Morstan is almost certainly connected as well. The nurse is her plant, though she does in fact work here. Or did. She has been removed.” Mycroft opens the folder now but still does not extract anything. “Meaning,” he prompts. 

“Meaning that Mary and John did not meet by chance,” Sherlock says slowly, working it out. “Mary was placed near John in the event that I might still be alive.”

“Which you were.” Mycroft turns another page. “There are no signed contracts, of course, but I firmly suspect that Mary was kept on hand to dispose of you both in that case. We have no solid ties to Moriarty but we are looking for anything that could provide us with a reason to question her. Apart from having tried to kill you, of course.”

Sherlock hears himself exhale. It’s all perfectly clear: three years ago, Mary was likely to have killed them both if it were to be discovered that Sherlock’s death was less than genuine. “And then she married him,” he says in disgust. He passes the page back to Mycroft, who has raised his brows at this comment. “What is her connection to Magnussen?” he asks, before his brother can say anything. 

Mycroft shakes his head. “Nothing personal. Remember, Magnussen just collects information. He’s not a – Moriarty.”

Sherlock shivers before he can prevent himself, his left hand closing instinctively around the fingers of his right. 

The silence in the room grows heavy. “Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet. Too quiet, Sherlock thinks. A beat passes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock looks down at his hands. “Tell you what?” It’s stiff but nonetheless manages to sound both rebellious and sulky despite his efforts to keep it emotionless. 

Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a thumb drive. In eight-point font it is neatly labelled _RLH Surveillance_ with several different dates listed. “The panic attacks,” Mycroft says, but leaves it at that. “You haven’t told anyone that you’ve been threatened here. Twice. At least.”

“At least?” Sherlock can’t look at Mycroft and keeps his eyes on the surface of the tray. 

“Yes, if you count the poppies, which I do,” Mycroft tells him. “The first poppy was a plant from Mary’s spy. We can safely assume that Mary sent it. A combined message, I would say: both a threat to keep your silence with regards to John, as well as a not particularly subtle dig regarding your opiate usage in the past. Convenient for her that she managed to find a flower that is both poisonous _and_ a source of opium so that she could do both at once.”

“Why the drug reference?” Sherlock asks. He could try to out-deduce Mycroft but he’s tired and in pain and at the moment it seems easier to let Mycroft do the heavy-lifting. 

“It’s an inference that you’re weak,” Mycroft informs him. “Easily dealt with: witness your current situation. It says that she knows where you are, where and how to get you alone – not difficult, here – and that she will not hesitate to strike if she suspects that you are not complying. And, as it happens, that she already has a source of poison at the ready, right here in your room. Or there, I suppose I should say; you’re in a different room.”

“Right,” Sherlock says. “So: the question is, what do we do?”

“About which?” Mycroft asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Mary or Magnussen?”

“Both.” The word is grim. 

Mycroft glances at the door. “I assume you’ll want to check with John before we form any plans regarding Ms Morstan.”

Sherlock hesitates, then nods. Yes. John will need to approve it first. “What about Magnussen?” he asks. 

Mycroft flips his file folder open to the back and glances down at it. “I have devised a small plan,” he says to it, slowly, “which would effectively… deal with him.”

He looks up again and Sherlock meets his gaze. “By which you mean to kill him,” Sherlock posits. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “By which I mean you to do so.”

A beat passes. “Ah,” Sherlock says, as neutrally as possible. 

“What do you think?” Mycroft is unmoving, waiting for his answer. Sherlock catches the fleeting glimmer of what his brother’s feelings regarding Magnussen’s visit actually encompass, the lengths to which he would avenge Sherlock – or arrange to have him avenge himself – for the attack. Small as it was, they are both aware of the threat posed, of the violation of Magnussen’s lips on Sherlock’s skin, his nose on Sherlock’s, the implication that it would happen again, and repeatedly. Sherlock remembers Magnussen’s parting words as he left the flat, too. _I’ve never had a detective before._ And John’s wrathful explosion because of it. _Jesus!_ John’s reaction still warms him to the core, without taking away the horror of Magnussen’s touch when he was powerless to resist it, to flee, to defend himself. 

Mycroft is still waiting for him to say something. Sherlock nods, looking at his hands again, at the place where Magnussen’s repulsive kiss left its invisible mark. “Yes,” he says, in quiet acceptance of what Mycroft is asking of him. “If you need me to do it, I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Mycroft sounds slightly relieved. “Then here is what we are going to do. You will meet with Magnussen. You will explain to him that you are going to sell me out, and when the time comes to exchange information of mine, you will request any material he possesses on Ms Morstan. I suspect that he doesn’t have anything concrete, but if he does, you would then obtain it and we then control Ms Morstan. Meanwhile, I am not leaving you here alone. John can’t be here all of the time and I don’t want you unsupervised while you’re still recovering. I have already asked John if he would be willing to go back to Baker Street with you and stay until you are fully healed, and he has agreed. He has also refused to accept any compensation for the work he will miss in doing so. If he changes his mind, do let me know. As it stands, you inflicted such damage on yourself with that ridiculous escape that it will be at least a week before you will be permitted to discharge yourself. Do stay put this time, won’t you?” 

Sherlock nods, giving in. He can feel the damage himself without being told. He knew that it would likely prolong his recovery by at least a week, perhaps more, and now it appears to be considerably more. This is the price, then, for ensuring John’s safety. The longer he left Mary waiting to find out his next move, the more likely she would have become to do something drastic and unpredictable. 

John appears in the doorway and stops there. Sherlock sees him and their eyes meet, and the air is charged between them. He can read the tension in John’s face and shoulders and wishes he’d had time to ask Mycroft how John was handling everything before John came back, but never mind. He’ll ascertain all that for himself. “Mycroft,” he says, his lips barely moving. 

Mycroft comprehends at once and gets to his feet. “I’ll be in touch,” he says and departs swiftly, nodding at John on his way out. John nods back, just a stiff jerk of his chin. 

Silence falls. John takes one step inside the room and closes the door behind him, but does not come any closer. Sherlock watches him warily, wishing he knew what to say. “Are you all right?” he asks finally, breaking the silence. 

John looks down, then shakes his head. “Not really.” The admission is quiet but steady. 

“I didn’t think you were,” Sherlock admits. “I had to tell you, though. I couldn’t continue not telling you, keeping it from you.”

“Right,” John says. It’s a bit short, but not angry, Sherlock thinks. John looks over at him now. “Your brother asked me to stay with you, as soon as the hospital releases you.”

Sherlock nods. “He says you agreed.”

John nods. “Yeah. I did.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. The conversation is stiff and awkward, but not necessarily uncomfortable. 

John shrugs. “What else could I have said? You’re my best friend. And I get why he doesn’t want you here on your own. I don’t want you here on your own, either.”

Sherlock’s throat tightens. “John…” he says, without knowing what he needs to say next. 

It’s enough, though. John comes over then, dropping into the chair, his elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. “Christ, Sherlock,” he says, the words muffled by his palms. Several moments go by before he finds words and speaks again, his voice full of anger and pain. “What did I do to deserve this? Don’t tell me this is all my fault. _Please_. Tell me you didn’t mean that.”

Sherlock hesitates, writhing between possible answers. Then the correct one makes itself clear. “It’s not your fault,” he says. 

John lowers his hands, revealing a face that looks old and tired and anguished. He puts both palms on Sherlock’s right hand and wrist, where Magnussen touched him, and sets his forehead against his hands. His thumbs move slowly over Sherlock’s skin. “Thank you for saying that,” he says. “God. Sherlock. What are we going to _do?_ I married a criminal. A murderer. Someone I don’t know the first thing about. An assassin, for fuck’s sake!”

Sherlock pauses. “Yes,” he says after a bit. “I suppose you did.”

“But she’s my wife. I love her. What am I meant to do with that?” John lifts his face, though not his hands, his eyes unhappy and full of appeal. “I can’t just leave her. And yet – I can’t just go back to her, either!”

“Don’t decide now,” Sherlock tells him swiftly. “Come home to Baker Street with me. You don’t have to make a decision yet. We’ll work it out.” 

He’s babbling, he realises, saying whatever he thinks John wants to hear, but it’s working. John looks at him with frank gratitude. “There’s honestly nothing else that I want more,” he admits. “Just to come back with you and stay for awhile. Besides, you’ll need me around, anyway. The hospital would never agree to release you in less than a couple of months at the very least, particularly after your escape.”

“But I’ll have you at home,” Sherlock says, eyes searching John’s for confirmation. “You’ll take care of me.”

John gives him a watery smile, his hands squeezing around Sherlock’s wrist and hand, like an anointment, a cleansing after the defiling of Magnussen’s touch. “Yeah,” he says. “I will.”

*** 

Sherlock is released from the hospital six days later, to the obvious dismay of every doctor and nurse on the ward. John is extremely firm on the point, however, and as he usually does when he sets his mind on something, he gets his way. Mycroft sends a car, though he himself is absent. The stairs at Baker Street take nearly ten minutes to mount and John tells him firmly at the top that Sherlock will _not_ be leaving the flat any time soon. Sherlock is so weary that he cannot even bring himself to argue, letting John steer him toward the bedroom and his own bed. The clothes that John helped him into in the hospital are stripped off again just as quickly. Sherlock had been permitted to wear a gown in the hospital (a fact which had greatly aided his ability to meet with Magnussen the previous day) but now John removes his shirt, too. By this point Sherlock is fairly accustomed to being mostly nude most of the time, but it feels different here in his bedroom, somehow, with only John there. No nurses’ station just down the corridor, no orderlies and medical aides passing in the hall. He is quiet as John has him sit on the edge of the bed in his underwear and socks alone, allowing John to lift his feet and carefully get him onto his back again. Then John takes his socks off, disposing of them in the laundry hamper. 

“I know you prefer to be barefoot,” he says. 

Sherlock smiles slightly and wriggles his toes. 

John pulls the sheets and blanket up to his waist, then sits down on the edge of the bed, bending forward to peer at the bandaging. “That’s still off-centre,” he observes. “They never get it right. I won’t change it now, though. That was a bit of an ordeal, wasn’t it. Coming home.” His eyes flick up to Sherlock’s, but he doesn’t make him admit it. “I expect you’ll be wanting some morphine and a bit of a sleep now.”

“I’m not – ”

“That wasn’t a question,” John interrupts. His face goes stern. “Let’s get one thing straight, right here and now,” he says. “You know that you’re in no position to be out of the hospital. A shot like yours can take up to six months to fully recover from, and you went and buggered a number of things up when you left. I’m not questioning why you did; I know very well what you were thinking and I understand, but listen to me: you are going to take it very easy for the next little while. You should have a team of people caring for you, but for your own safety, there’s just me. So you’re going to do as you’re told. Understood?”

“Yes.” Sherlock is obedient. “Just – if I can make a request – don’t give me too much morphine. Just enough to take the edge off the pain. I want my mind clear.”

John nods. “Yes. I agree. I think that would be for the best.” He reaches into his jumper pocket and punches out two pills from a blister pack. “Another thing,” he says, before giving them to Sherlock. “I know very well that you’re perfectly capable of deducing where I’ll be keeping these. I want your word that you won’t go looking for them.”

“You have it,” Sherlock says instantly. “I don’t _want_ it, John. If it weren’t for the pain, I wouldn’t take it at all.”

“But you understand why I’m concerned,” John says, his eyes worried but compassionate. 

“Of course I do,” Sherlock says impatiently. “But it really was for the Magnussen case! I needed him to think that opiates were a problem for me. I wanted him to underestimate me.”

John nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, sounding as though he is striving to keep the doubt from his voice. “I believe you.” He holds out the pills. “Need water?”

“No.” Sherlock takes them and swallows them both together. 

“Good.” John looks at him, his face bleak. “God, I’m glad to be here with you,” he says, his tone too grim to be called forlorn. “You’re the only person I could even tolerate being around right now, you know.”

Sherlock reaches for his left wrist with his right hand, circling his fingers around it. It’s the first time he has been the one to initiate this touch, this thing that John has been doing since he was shot and John does not reject it. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. 

John smiles, just a little, but it’s sad. “Go to sleep.” He stands and pulls the blankets a little higher, to just below the bandaging. “Are you cold?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“All right.” John goes to the door and switches off the light. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

*** 

That night, John cooks for both of them and helps Sherlock to the table. Sherlock stays where he is after. John brought his laptop to the kitchen table and he is ostensibly checking his email but really watching John clean the dishes and straighten everything up to military standard, as easily and comfortably as though he has never stopped living here, and something glows in Sherlock’s gut. If only it could be like this forever: just the two of them and no one else, here at Baker Street, in their home. It isn’t home without John. 

Later, John pulls him up from the sofa and tells him to go and get ready for bed. While Sherlock is brushing his teeth, he can hear John moving around in the bedroom and wonders what he is doing. He rinses his mouth and toothbrush and goes to see. John is arranging his pocket change in order of denomination on Sherlock’s dresser, the way he always used to do on his own. Somehow Sherlock is pleased to see that John still does this. (He thinks of Mary noticing this fondly and it puts an immediate damper on his mood, his half-formed smile fading.) “What are you doing?” he asks, not meaning the change. 

John sets the last coin in place, then turns around. He’s dressed in pyjama pants and a t-shirt and has a determined look on his face, as though he’s expecting Sherlock to put up a fuss. “Look,” he says, sounding as though he’s trying to come off as diplomatic. “My room is too far if you need something during the night. So is the sofa. So I’m sleeping here. All right?” 

Sherlock looks at the bed. “All right,” he says slowly, feeling awkward and somehow wrong-footed. He wasn’t expecting this. 

John looks at him for a moment, gauging his face. “You’re – okay with that?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock hears his own voice sounding calmer than he feels. “Fine,” he echoes. 

“All right.” John sounds a bit surprised, but pleased enough not to have a fight. He comes around. “Let’s get you into bed, then.”

Sherlock makes a vaguely affirmative sound and lets John manoeuvre him into position. 

“How do you want to sleep?” John asks. 

“I usually sleep on my side,” Sherlock says. “Though not lately. Am I allowed to choose?”

“You’re better off on your back, but if you’re careful, your side could be all right. Let’s start you on your back for now and when you want to move, tell me.” John says all this while already arranging Sherlock’s limbs the way he wants them and Sherlock feels his focus slip into dangerous waters for a moment at the thought of John just moving his body about and doing as he likes with it. (No. Not now.) 

John goes to the other side of the bed and gets in. He yawns. “It’s been a big day,” he says. “Mind if I switch off the lamp?”

This feels strangely normal already. “Go ahead,” Sherlock says. John turns off the lamp, turning the room into midnight blue, a bit of streetlight coming in through the curtains. Quiet falls between them. Sherlock is intensely aware of John’s presence just a few inches away, turned on his side to face the opposite wall. Several minutes pass. An overwhelming desire to confess comes over him. “John.” 

“Yeah?” John is definitely not sleeping. 

Sherlock hesitates, then follows through and says it. “I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before. I’m… not entirely sure what to expect.”

For a moment John is silent. Then he turns slightly, looking back over his shoulder a bit. “Never?” he repeats. 

“No.”

“Not even – ”

“No,” Sherlock reiterates. “Never. Not even – whatever you’re thinking.”

John turns all the way around now, facing him. His eyes are wide with disbelief, but the look is kind. Too kind – compassionate, even, and far too serious. “Well,” he says cautiously, “I think you can keep your expectations pretty low. The plan is for me to sleep on this side and you to sleep on that side, and that should about do it. I won’t promise not to poke you if you snore, though.”

“I don’t snore,” Sherlock says, affronted. 

John laughs. “Yeah, you do. Most people do.”

“ _You_ do,” Sherlock counters, feeling self-conscious. 

“Relax. It’s not loud,” John tells him. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s forearm, the touch warm but careful. “ _Never?_ ” he says again. “Really?”

“Really,” Sherlock says, adding dryly, “Is that really so difficult to believe?” 

John blinks a few times. “No,” he says honestly, after a moment. “But it makes me feel – I don’t know. Well, look,” he goes on quickly, before Sherlock can even finish the thought about asking about what John just said, “if I do anything untoward in my sleep, apologies in advance. You know: kick or thrash or whatever.”

Sherlock has a moment of thinking of John’s hasty clarification and wonders what John really meant by _untoward_ , and in whose opinion he thinks it would be that, precisely. (Certainly not his own.) “Duly noted,” he says, aware that his heart is beating faster than it was. 

“Right. Good night, then,” John says briskly, and turns the other way again. 

Sherlock echoes him and stays awake for the next three hours just listening to John breathe. 

*** 

He wakes before John, suddenly, startled: why? The answer becomes immediately apparent: John has turned over in his sleep, facing him, and his left hand is resting on Sherlock’s stomach, low, below his navel. His forehead is buried against Sherlock’s left shoulder, and Sherlock’s body has already taken note of this and responded, to his horror. He looks down along himself and sees that his untoward erection is quite visible beneath the sheets. 

He lets his head fall back to the stacked pillows and wonders what on earth to do. Of course he’s had erections before, but in the past he either ignored them and they went away on their own, or else he dealt with them as swiftly and efficiently as possible. The issue of a second party being present has never existed. He can feel the arousal throughout his body, not concentrated only in his genitals. It’s accompanied by an emotional/mental response of a similar nature. Instead of just experiencing an inconvenient resurgence of his seldom-visited sexuality, this time he feels the connection to John directly. And strongly. John has featured in his vague fantasies before, of course, but it’s different when he can feel John’s eyelashes on his arm, the warmth of his breath, and most dangerously, the position of his hand on Sherlock’s lower abdomen. He is aware that he wants very badly for that hand to move lower, to touch him. Guide him through what would be his first sexual experience involving another person. It was always only ever going to be John if it was going to be anyone, and he’d never allowed himself to even hope that it would ever become a possibility with John. 

Strange how the fantasy seems approximately four hundred percent more likely with John here in bed beside him, touching him – albeit unconsciously. John would never touch him this way on purpose. Of course not. This thought helps restore realism in Sherlock’s mind, yet does nothing whatsoever to dampen his ardour for John. He turns his head to look at him. What if he were to put his hand over John’s? Would that wake him? (Likely.) He wants to. (He shouldn’t. Cannot.) Cautiously, he turns his head down toward John’s, not touching, but close enough to breathe in the scent of his hair. John’s proximity feels euphoric, dizzying, and Sherlock wants more than ever to be even closer to him. 

His erection is throbbing gently, fuller than ever. Sherlock sighs, trying not to ruffle John’s hair with his breath and wonders again what to do. It is too hard to hope that it will go away on its own. Not this time. And it’s not as though he can take care of it here in bed. Surely John would wake up. No matter, Sherlock thinks. Even if he slept through it, the mess would be apparent enough later. He will just have to get up and go deal with it somewhere else. Perhaps a shower. Yes. 

This decided, Sherlock begins to, very slowly and very carefully, ease himself out of bed. It hurts and twice he has to stop moving. He cannot grip at his chest, so he curls his fingers into the edge of the mattress and grits his teeth as pain sweeps hotly through his chest cavity. When it passes, he unclenches his fingers and pushes himself up from the night table. On his feet, sweat standing out on his forehead, Sherlock looks back at John, who has not moved, his hand lying on the sheet where Sherlock’s body was before. (Good.) Sherlock goes into the bathroom quietly, noting that his erection is undimmed by the pain of getting to his feet, hard enough to make it even more difficult to walk. 

He turns on the water, feeling strangely guilty. John can’t object to this, can he? Sherlock was allow to shower unassisted twice in the hospital before being reluctantly discharged. He gets the pyjama pants off and steps into the hot water. It’s blissful, the heat soaking into his skin. The hospital let him shower at most once every three days, far less than his usual preference. The gunshot wound only hurts when the water hits it directly, so he keeps his chest out of the flow, tipping his head back instead to let the warmth of the water soak into his hair and run down his back. His penis aches. He reaches for a bottle of shower gel and squeezes out a palmful, rubs it between his hands to make it foam and rubs it over his arms and torso and abdomen, careful to avoid the wound. He goes back for more and cleanses the rest of himself, then gives in to the temptation to take himself in hand, rubbing the expensive gel over his erection in long strokes. It feels better than it’s ever felt before, the imprint of John’s inadvertent touch still on his skin, the vertigo of his closeness surrounding Sherlock like a cloud of steam. He lets his head fall back and strokes harder, pushing into his fist. 

The bathroom door opens, from the bedroom. “Sherlock?” John sounds both sleepy and confused. “Are you taking a shower?”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, his hand pausing. He swallows. “No, I’m composing a symphony. What do you think I’m doing?” 

John makes more confused sounds. “No, I just – do you know what time it is?” 

He has no idea. “Does it matter? I felt like having a shower. I didn’t realise I needed to ask permission.” He sounds grumpy and he is; John’s presence is actually making his desire worse, rather than dealing it a swift and merciful death at being practically caught in the act. 

“No, of course you don’t,” John says, sounding uncertain. “But I’d feel better at least being awake. If you make the water too hot, you could pass out. I just want you to be careful.”

“Fine. I’ll be careful,” Sherlock says. 

“Okay. I’m just going to stay in here until you’re ready to get out,” John says, and sits down on the lid of the toilet. 

Sherlock pauses. This is extremely inconvenient. Then again… the sound of the water could potentially drown out the sounds of his hand on his flesh, or it could just sound like the regular sounds of someone washing himself, perhaps. “Fine,” he says again, his hand still on himself. He begins to stroke again, extremely, acutely aware of John’s proximity, only it’s making him shamefully even more aroused than before. He gets some more shower gel and starts using two hands, touching this strange, hard, uncontrollable bit of himself that wants so badly and feels so tremendously good. He inhales sharply without meaning to and has to let go to brace himself on the wall. 

John makes an indefinable sound. “Sh – what are you doing?” he asks, sounding nervous. 

“I’m – washing my hair,” Sherlock pants, aware that he is audibly out of breath. 

John stands up abruptly. “Actually, er, I think you’ll be fine if I wait in the bedroom,” he says, very quickly, still sounding awkward. “Um – call me if you – er – need anything.”

Sherlock can’t even answer. John has left the door open, or so he presumes as he didn’t hear it close, but at this point he doesn’t even care. He thrusts into his fist, leaning on the wall so that he won’t lose his balance and fall. His erection is pulsing in his hand, his breath shallow and short, pleasure crawling over his skin like pinpricks, delving into him, and he ejaculates, his breath suspended, trying desperately not to make any sound. It comes again, another shot flying into the wall and sliding down, pearlescent, mixing with the rivulets of water running down the marble. He slumps against the wall, thinking that it has never felt so good in all his thirty-seven years. When he catches his breath, he pushes himself upright and quickly washes his hair, rinses it out, and turns off the water. 

“John?” he calls, feeling cautious. 

“Yeah?” John’s voice comes nearer as he says the word. “You finished?”

“Yes. I seem to have forgotten to get a towel,” Sherlock says apologetically. “Would you mind?” 

“Of course not.” John comes in, goes to the cupboard where they’ve always kept towels and brings one over, holding it out around the curtain so that only his arm appears. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, taking it. John is still there, so he begins to dry himself off carefully from behind the curtain. The steam is so thick that he’ll be damp again in a few moments anyway, but it doesn’t matter. When he’s mostly dry, he tells John, knotting the towel around his waist. 

John pulls the curtain back. His eyes move over Sherlock’s chest – checking the wound, Sherlock knows, nothing more – and stop on the bandage. “You’ve got your dressing wet,” he says. “I’ll have to change it.”

“Okay.” Sherlock doesn’t resist. “Whatever you like.” 

“Here, lean against the counter,” John says, his fingers already peeling away the wet medical tape. He’s already got out the kit, gauze and tape at the ready. He pats the wound dry so gently that Sherlock thinks again how glad he is to have John as his sole caregiver now. He’s so much better than any doctor in any hospital. John pats down the new tape, then says, “I won’t ask why you needed to shower at four-thirty in the morning, but do come back to bed and sleep a bit more now, hmm?”

Sherlock doesn’t let on that he had no idea that it’s so early. He’d thought it was morning. “All right,” he says meekly and allows John to put him back to bed. 

John goes to sleep facing away from him again and Sherlock lies awake on his back, head turned in John’s direction. He is warm and sleepier than usual after an orgasm, though this one was more powerful than they usually are. He feels more relaxed, too, and wants to curl himself around John, drink in the warmth of him, put his arms around him. Attach these feelings to their source. Bond. 

(He doesn’t, though he falls asleep still thinking about it.)

*** 

A week passes. Sherlock’s wound heals quickly, more quickly than it was doing in the hospital. John pronounces himself pleased with Sherlock’s speed of recovery. Pleased and even surprised, he says. It no longer hurts Sherlock every time he moves, though certain things are still well out of the question. And he continues to wake every morning with an unbearably hard erection caused solely by John’s presence in his bed. This is both a torment and… strangely not a torment; he finds himself completely unwilling to suggest that John go sleep in his own bed. Particularly not as John continues to touch him unconsciously in his sleep. Just that morning he was sleeping with his arm stretched all the way over Sherlock’s stomach, as though something in his mind knew not to aggravate the wound even in his sleep. He’d woken, mumbled, “Oh, sorry”, turned over and went on sleeping, while Sherlock lay awake missing the heat of his arm, his penis stiff beneath the blankets. 

At least it doesn’t seem to have embarrassed John, to know that he’d been doing that in his sleep. It’s something, Sherlock tells himself. And one morning John finally notices inadvertently, discovers the state of Sherlock’s body while helping him out of bed. Sherlock’s erection brushes John’s hip through his pyjama pants, to his mortification. John merely pauses, shrugs, and says, “Happens to everyone,” as briskly as though diagnosing a headache, and proceeds to ignore it from that point on. He is kind, Sherlock thinks, grateful, though no less embarrassed by his body’s betrayal. 

Meanwhile, they are living an extremely contained and solitary life and it suits Sherlock eminently well. For once he is content to stay in, somehow not at all bored with this, but relishing John’s constant presence in secret, relishing the fact that he is here at Baker Street and not with Mary. He has spoken about Mary only once, two nights prior. They had been sitting in their chairs after dinner. Mrs Hudson had come up with a cake and lit the fire while John had made tea. She’d stayed to eat a piece, then left, taking the laundry with her, shooing off John’s protestations on account of the latter. She had gone and John had refilled their cups and brought Sherlock’s into the sitting room and set it down beside him before going to sit in his own chair. They were both reading, or trying to in John’s case, but Sherlock noticed him fidgeting, going back to re-read passages he had ostensibly just read. Finally he’d broken the silence. “John… what’s on your mind?”

John had sighed and put his book down. “That obvious, is it?”

“Rather,” Sherlock had said, but nicely. “Come on. Out with it.” He suspected it was Mary, and he was right. 

“Well, it’s just that I don’t know what to do,” John had admitted. “About Mary, I mean. I mean, we’ve barely been married a month and now I find out she’s not anything like the person I thought she was. And she _shot_ you. I know what you said, but I also know why you said all that. You’re worried about how she could react if I leave her. Given that she just shot you in the heart, I’d say that your precautions are pretty spot-on. But am I really supposed to go back to her? But then, how can I _not_ , when she’s carrying my child? But – I don’t know if I can reconcile myself to everything that she is, everything that she’s done. I just don’t know. I can’t even talk to her. She keeps calling and I keep not answering. I don’t know what to say to her.” 

Sherlock listened to all of this, none of which had surprised him in the least. It was precisely how he’d been expecting John to react. “I think,” he’d said slowly, “that, while I know you want to be able to make a decision now and be done with it, I rather think that you will need to allow more time to pass before you’re able to do so.”

“I know,” John had said dispiritedly, looking into the fire. “Of course you’re right. I just wish I could make up my mind about how I felt about it.”

“What’s your instinctive reaction?” Sherlock had asked, curious. “Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“I hate it,” John had said instantly. “I hate that she lied. I hate that she shot you. I hate that nothing I thought I knew about her is real. I hate that she’s a professional killer. I hate that she’s a complete stranger who happens to be pregnant with my child. But – ”

“But,” Sherlock had agreed. “But then all of the moral objections on the other side. Of course. But that’s how you feel, at least at the outset.”

“Yes,” John had told him. He’d sighed again and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Christ. What am I going to do?” 

“What do you want to do?” Sherlock had asked. “Again, just off the top of your head.”

“Stay here,” John had said. “Stay here and hide from it forever. Can’t I just do that? Stay here with you?” He’d laughed mirthlessly, then had the grace to look apologetic. “A large part of me really does want that,” he said after, seriously. “I love being back here with you again. Even under the circumstances.”

Sherlock had smiled. “It’s good having you home again,” he’d said, and John hadn’t corrected him on the term “home”. 

*** 

He’s napping, as morphine always knocks him out. He’s dreaming but in the dream he cannot tell whether or not it’s only a dream. He’s in his bed at Baker Street, but Magnussen is there. Magnussen is standing in the doorway, relieving himself on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom. He’s looking around with vague interest as he does so, his urine making a strangely loud sound against the thick carpet on the floor. He finishes, zips his trousers, and wipes his long fingers on them before walking through his puddle on the carpet toward Sherlock. “Apologies for the dampness of my foot prints,” he says casually. “You’ll get used to it.” He’s coming closer, bending over Sherlock now, his eyes distorted and huge behind the rimless glasses. His fingers are cold and clammy when they wrap around Sherlock’s right wrist and he bends even lower, his lips pursed. He is going to kiss Sherlock, and Sherlock cannot run. He screams. 

“Sherlock!” 

His eyes fly open, his heart pounding. It’s John, but he’s bent over Sherlock, his eyes too close, and Sherlock shouts out again in terror that he knows dimly is irrational but all he knows is that he has to get _away_. He scrambles over the bed the far way, over John’s side. His legs give out, his chest wound bleating in agony and he crumples to the floor with his back to the closet, unable to breathe, hyperventilating, his knees drawn up. He is shaking like a leaf, feeling nauseated and like he is choking, both hands at his throat. 

John is saying his name and kneeling beside him, but carefully keeping some distance between them. “Sherlock! Breathe slowly, in through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, you can do it. That’s it. It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here. Keep breathing. Good. You’re doing well.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to control his breathing, blinking away stupid moisture. This is ridiculous. Is this just going to keep happening? He’s had flashes of both visits, Mary’s and then Magnussen’s, of the poppies from the first hospital room, but normally he is able to regulate his own thoughts well enough to push the images firmly away. It’s the eyes that are the worst, the eyes right in his face. Mary’s single eye is bad enough, but when it’s both it jolts him. He’s had the glimpse of her in the wedding dress, her face set as she pulls the trigger of the gun again, and he’s seen Magnussen’s cold grey eyes in his glasses, felt the damp heat of his mouth on his unresisting hand. He’s heard their words in his head, alternating. _Sherrrrlock. You don’t tell him. You don’t tell John. Oh, I envy your hands, Mr Holmes! Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You’ll get used to it._ He shudders, hating himself for this, hating that John is seeing him like this. 

“May I?” John asks carefully, his hands gently prising Sherlock’s from his throat. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed; he does not want to see John’s face superimposed over Magnussen’s like that again. He lets John take his hands, though. John’s are small and warm and dry and eminently skilled, always gentle, and he’s holding Sherlock’s, his thumbs rubbing soothingly over Sherlock’s knuckles. 

Sherlock feels the moisture escape, leaking down his face and it’s humiliating. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his heart still thudding painfully. 

“Nothing to apologise for.” John is firm and brisk about this. “Can’t be helped.” He hesitates. “Could I hug you?” 

Sherlock remembers the first panic attack in the hospital, remembers that this was John’s instinct then, too, and that it helped. He nods, opening his eyes. John is kneeling in front of him. He pushes Sherlock’s knees down so that he is cross-legged instead and leans over, pulling Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock turns his face away at the last second to avoid seeing John’s face too close and clumsily puts his arms around John’s back. John makes no effort to break the hug off immediately. He hugs with all of himself, Sherlock thinks, his eyes closed as he lets himself drown in the comfort of John’s closeness. 

“Your heart is beating like a bird’s,” John murmurs. “Oh, Sherlock.” After a long while, John finally releases him, sitting back and giving Sherlock his space. “Let’s get you off the floor,” he says, and when Sherlock acquiesces, pulls him gently to his feet. “All right?” he asks, wincing. “That must have been rough on your chest.”

“It hurts,” Sherlock admits. “But I don’t want morphine. Please. That just – distorts everything.”

“Okay. Okay. You don’t have to take it. Here. Sit down,” John says, easing Sherlock down on what is normally his side of the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him. He then goes around it and sits down on Sherlock’s side, his back against the headboard, a few inches of space between them. “I think you should talk about it,” John says carefully. “I think it’s more than just me having startled you while you were asleep. This isn’t a regular reaction, nor is it typical for you. I think you must have a bit of trauma related to having been shot, which would be perfectly normal, but I’m wondering if there’s something I’m missing. Something I don’t know. And I don’t want to pry or push you, but I really do think it could help if you talked about it with someone. You didn’t want to back in the hospital, and that’s fine. But I’m concerned that this is still happening. Do you have any idea if it was something in particular that’s causing this? Did something else happen that I don’t know about?”

Sherlock looks down at fingers, which are twisting themselves together on top of his pyjama pants. He is wearing a t-shirt at the moment and doesn’t feel as exposed as he might have done otherwise, and this helps. “There is something else,” he says slowly, reluctantly. “It’s – ” He stops. “I can’t – I don’t want to – ”

“Take your time,” John says quietly. “There’s no rush.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and hears it stutter unevenly out again. He has to say it. Just get it out. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he says. “It’s… humiliating, somehow. Magnussen came to the hospital once, when you weren’t there. It’s – it was short and it shouldn’t be so – but – ” He stops and starts again, forcing himself to speak calmly, to frame the nightmare in regular, logical, emotionless words. “He came into the room and commented on some of the flowers. Then he sat down beside the bed and – started touching my hand and arm. He complimented my hands and he – kissed one of them.” He can feel John stiffen beside him, feels him holding in his reaction out of an effort to let Sherlock finish speaking first. “He apologised for ‘the dampness of his touch’ and said I would get used to it. He told me that he hadn’t told the police about Mary. He put his face right over mine so that our noses were touching. I was afraid he was going to kiss me. I was extremely high and I couldn’t move. That was why I had the second panic attack. I passed out. I could hear the heart monitor beeping and I could see his eyes, and all I could think of was that I had to get away, and I couldn’t.” He stops, his heart pounding again just at the memory. 

“Jesus!” John expostulates. “Oh my _God!_ I cannot fucking – I can’t believe I left you there, alone. Ever. He assaulted you!”

Sherlock nods, feeling small. “It seems so minimal, yet – I just can’t – I see his eyes sometimes, and I know it’s likely that the morphine distorted the memory, but the eyes are huge and far too close.”

“So I when woke you all bent over like that – ” John stops. “Fuck. I feel sick. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s decidedly not your fault,” Sherlock says. He hesitates, wondering if he should say the rest of it, about Mary. 

But John catches the omission before Sherlock can bring himself to go on. “Wait,” he says, turning his head toward Sherlock. “You said that was the reason for the second panic attack. I always thought that I brought the first one on by telling you how close you’d come to dying. But was it that, or was it – was that the first time Magnussen had come?” 

Sherlock swallows. This is going to be harder. “No,” he says quietly, looking at his hands again. “I really didn’t want to tell you this.”

“Tell me.” John’s voice is steely. “I don’t care what it is. I need to know. Tell me.”

Sherlock lets the silence hang for a moment, then makes himself say it. “It was Mary.”

John goes very still beside him. He pulls his legs up and puts his arms around them. “Go on.” His voice is tense. 

Sherlock says it quickly, woodenly. “She came to my room. I had just got out of surgery, I think. It was similar: the morphine was very high and the memory is distorted, but I remember what she said. She told me not to tell you. She said it repeatedly. She said, ‘You don’t tell John.’ She sounded – playful, sometimes, and ominous at others. She was also bent over me and I see her eyes, too. Sometimes just the left one, sometimes both. It’s worse when it’s both. And sometimes,” he adds, making himself say it all, “I see her in her wedding dress, firing the gun. Always in the dress.” Surely even John will see the obvious connection between the shot and the wedding now. (It can’t be helped, Sherlock thinks, and resigns himself to the truth of his feelings for John coming out imminently.)

John says nothing. Then he gets off the bed and starts to pace, one hand on his forehead, the other at his hip. Sherlock watches him warily. “She threatened you,” John says at last, exhaling heavily, stopping near the doorway, his back to Sherlock. “She shot you, then went to the hospital to meet me, then at some point she got into your room and threatened you. While you were just out of surgery and high as a kite. Alone. Vulnerable. Possibly afraid of her.”

Sherlock cannot deny the truth of this. He hates to add to the list, but he has to say it. “There’s one other thing. She had a nurse who had connections to Moriarty put a yellow poppy in my room. Poppies are poisonous. Mycroft thinks that it was meant to reinforce the threat. And possibly it was also a nod to my former addiction. When Magnussen came, he brought a second one and added it to the vase.”

John turns around, his face accusing, but he is nodding as though everything makes sense to him now. “And then Mary found you in Leinster Gardens – she didn’t tell me who she was asking, or that she had another lead on your possible location. Instead, she took a loaded gun and went to find you by herself. That’s true. Isn’t it.”

It’s not a question, but Sherlock has to confirm it. He looks down at his knees. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ!” John pounds a fist against the wall. “All right,” he says, breathing hard, seething. “That settles it. That makes up my mind.” He looks at Sherlock with a different sort of expression now, one which Sherlock is at a complete loss to identify. It makes him feel uncertain, almost anxious. “Listen,” John says, his tone extremely intense. “There’s a lot of stuff I have to say now. This has helped me make a decision, and I’m glad. One of the biggest questions for me all along has been whether or not Mary intended to kill you, and now I do think that she did. You said conflicting things, you know. First, at Leinster Gardens, you said that she failed to hit the centre of the coin, but that ‘nobody’s perfect’. That means you were implying that she meant to hit the centre of your chest but failed. Doesn’t it?”

“John…” Sherlock says placatingly, but John is insistent. 

“It has to,” he says. “There’s no other way to interpret that. But then you pulled out that ‘she saved my life’ business here at the house and I didn’t know what to think. But now I see it all clearly: you were just trying to protect me from her. From my own wife.”

He stops and Sherlock has to say something, again. “Yes.” 

John shakes his head. “Then I’m finished with her,” he says. “Absolutely finished. She tried to kill you. End of story. I’m done. I’m out.” He exhales deeply and runs all ten fingers through his short hair, then looks Sherlock straight in the eye. His face is unhappy, his jaw set. “Look,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should have been there. You asked me not to leave you alone and I shouldn’t have set foot outside your room. I get why you didn’t tell me before, but – all I can say is that I will never not be there for you again.”

Somehow this makes Sherlock feel slightly embarrassed. “John – it wasn’t your fault,” he tries, but John won’t accept this. 

“No,” he says, in his most stubborn, brick-wall tone. “Let me say this. You made me a vow at my wedding and it’s my turn this time: I promise you, Sherlock Holmes, that whatever happens, no matter what, I will always be there for you from now on. No matter what.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to this. Doesn’t know if it means what it sounds like it does. “But – Mary,” he objects. “Your child – you could have other priorities that need to come before me.” He hates this, but he doesn’t want John making a vow he cannot keep. 

“No – Sherlock – I am so fucking _tired_ of having to put other people, other stuff before you,” John says fiercely. “I’m sick of it. There is no one who is more important to me than you. Are you listening to me? _No one_. I’ll work about what to do about my child. That’s not the issue right now. You’ve been attacked, threatened, and assaulted, and I wasn’t there for you. I will never, ever not be there for you again. I mean it.”

Sherlock blinks. “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t know what else to say now, but it seems that John isn’t finished. 

“Do you even _know_ how important you are to me?” John sounds angry. “ _Do_ you, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock stares at him, feeling hollow. John can’t mean what he desperately wants this to mean. “What do you mean?” 

“You _know_ that I love you,” John says, still angry. “I have from the very start. You must know that. You can’t possibly not know. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I’ve never been as close to anyone else as I have to you. How I loved you, exactly – I mean, I always thought it was something we’d always just silently agreed to never talk about. But it was always Mary or you. From the moment I knew you were alive. But I’d already made my choice. Got engaged. And I thought it was fine, it was good. I was happy. Or happy enough. I thought I could make myself live with it. But before you died, or – disappeared – I guess I had always wondered what it would become, you and me, if I let it. I never knew if you felt anything, but I thought so, sometimes.” He glances at Sherlock, his face open and direct. He goes on, his tone calmer but no less intense. “But the chance never came, I guess. Or I never took it when it did and then it was too late and you were gone and I cursed myself over and over again for not having told you, not having been there for you when you needed me, or when I thought you did. But I always wished I had said. And now – ” 

Sherlock’s heart has already started beating faster since John said that he loved him. “What?” he asks, too abruptly, too quickly. (It can’t be helped.) “ _What_ , John?” 

John smiles slightly at the urgency in Sherlock’s voice. “I’ve loved you for a very long time,” he says matter-of-factly. “I used to not know how, before. Once you came back, I did. And it was always there, and always would have been. During the engagement – there were times when I had to ask myself if I was really sure that I’d made the right choice. Part of me always doubted it, because I know what I was without you, and it wasn’t much. Mary was marrying half a man, a hollow shell. I was only whole again when you walked back into my life. And if Mary’s not going to be in the picture, then it means I can finally say all this. Finally see if it’s anything you’d be interested in exploring. If not – fine. I mean, you’ll always be my best friend, no matter what. Nothing will ever change that. But I mean it, Sherlock. You’re my best friend and the most important person in my life and we could also be a lot more, if you wanted. I’ve known for ages that it could have always been more, for me. Took me awhile to admit it to myself, granted, but – there it is.”

He takes a deep breath and waits, and Sherlock finds he can barely speak. “But – I mean – you – you don’t really mean – you can’t – ”

John is still smiling. “Yes I can,” he says. “I mean it. Absolutely.”

Sherlock stops trying to talk and just stares at John in frank wonder and slight disbelief. “John – ”

John waits for a moment, but when Sherlock’s words fail him, he comes over and sits down on the bed beside him. “Does that mean this isn’t completely out of the question, then?” he asks softly, his eyes giant question marks, his face positively radiating Johnness. 

It brings Sherlock’s heart to his throat. He manages to nod but can’t seem to bring himself to speak. 

John’s smile makes his chest ache in a new way. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s and leans over a bit. “I want to kiss you,” he says, just above a whisper. “May I?” 

Sherlock nods again, his pulse spiking in anticipation and he watches John’s face as it comes nearer, but at the last second, John looks up into his eyes and something goes wrong. Sherlock jerks back, on his feet without realising that he stood up, and he is shaking from head to toe. “No!” The word blurts itself out of his mouth before he can help it. 

John looks immediately abashed. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” he says. “The eyes?”

Sherlock nods, feeling both ridiculous and ashamed of himself. He has wanted John to kiss him for longer than he can consciously say, and now he is reacting like this? John is neither Magnussen nor Mary, he reminds himself, but it doesn’t stop the tremors. “I’m sorry,” he says, feeling wretched. 

John shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he says. He gets up and goes to stand by the foot of the bed. “Let me give you some space. You don’t have to stay in the corner, there, unless you’d prefer to be there.”

“Who would prefer that?” Sherlock scoffs, aware of how unsteady his voice sounds. He goes to stand near John, stopping a couple of feet away. “I’m sorry, I – it just – ”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” John says firmly. “Look: let’s talk about it. Maybe it’s not the most romantic way to do it, but – I’d really like to kiss you. Would you like that?” 

Sherlock nods, miserable. It feels like being offered a winning lottery ticket and not being able to take it. “Very much so,” he says, his voice low. 

John smiles at this. “All right,” he says. “Then – may I?”

Sherlock nods again. “Please,” he says, and holds out his hands again. John takes them and moves cautiously closer. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s lips this time, and it’s going well – until the very moment when their lips are about to touch. Sherlock feels himself go rigid. It’s John’s eyelashes. Somehow they’re too reminiscent of Mary’s singular eye, the one that reminds him of a Venus fly trap. John’s lashes are golden and fanned out, soft and natural, but the image comes to mind all the same. 

John stops, then exhales and takes a step back. “No?” 

He sounds disappointed and Sherlock hates himself. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles again. He lets go of John’s hands and presses his fingers into his temples. “I don’t know why this is so difficult. I want this. I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”

“Have you?” John’s voice is soft and much less certain than it was a few minutes ago, and Sherlock hates having caused the change. 

“I have,” he says, insistently. “And I want you to kiss me. More than I can say.”

John looks up at him again, his eyes slightly damp. He blinks. “Okay. It’s not – me, then?” 

“Not at _all_ ,” Sherlock assures him, still feeling wretched. “I really do want this. I don’t know why I can’t – it’s – ”

“Stop beating yourself up,” John orders. “I have a new idea. Let’s do this: sit down here, on the edge of the bed.” He sits, smoothing the unmade blankets beside him. Sherlock does so, carefully. “Okay,” John says. “Let’s see if this works: I’m going to close my eyes. Put your hands on my face.” Sherlock does it, watching John’s closed lids warily, waiting for the first sign of alarm, of the panic starting again. But John’s eyes remain closed. “Good,” he says. “Now close your eyes, too.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says uncertainly as he does it. “Now what?” 

He can hear the smile in John’s voice. “Now kiss me.”

Sherlock hesitates, then pulls their faces together, his hands on John’s face his only guide. He finds John’s mouth with his own and it’s clumsy and nothing short of wonderful. Dizzying. Extraordinary. Exhilarating. Their lips press together for a long moment, then release and come together again, then again. John’s hands come up to Sherlock’s jaw line a moment later and they kiss again. Deprived of sight (though Sherlock knows that people do customarily close their eyes for this), every other sense becomes immediately more apparent. Emotion is flooding his nervous system, chemicals pooling in his brain, John’s proximity all the more dizzying, and it is intensely good. John’s mouth opens under his, his lips catching Sherlock’s lower lip and sucking, and Sherlock feels it immediately between his legs, heat blooming and spreading through his torso and down to his toes. He hears himself make a small noise of sheer want and John begins to kiss him harder, more deeply. His tongue touches Sherlock’s and Sherlock makes the same noise, only louder this time. Suddenly it’s not enough; he needs to be touching John everywhere, with every part of himself. He kisses back hungrily and moves his hands to John’s shoulders, gripping them, then wraps his arms around them and pulls John into his damaged chest. That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even hurt, or if it does, Sherlock is incapable of feeling anything but desire at the moment, a hunger for John that comes from his very bone marrow. 

He can feel how much John been suppressing this, too, a revelation that shocks him at how well John kept it hidden from him. (Was it obvious all along? Has he really been this blind?) John’s arms are around him, his heat pouring into Sherlock’s skin and soaking into his bones. Sherlock has extremely little to compare it to, but it seems to him that John is an above average kisser. His mouth is strong, authoritative, making Sherlock desperately hate every other person that John has ever kissed before. Though at the moment, he is the only one of those around and this is very satisfying. John’s hands are pressing into his back and Sherlock feels that a dam has been unleashed between them, that this was always going to happen sometime, if they both wanted it as much as this. 

When they finally break apart several long minutes later, Sherlock is breathing hard, his heart pounding like a jackhammer. Their arms still locked around each other, Sherlock can only just barely put his question into words, opening his eyes cautiously. John’s are still closed. “You – did you always – was it always – ?” 

John nods, his lips parted, cheeks flushed. “Afraid so,” he admits. “Even at the wedding I remember thinking how good you looked and telling myself not to notice, to remember the choice I’d made. And your _speech_. When you said that you loved me as much as Mary did – Christ, Sherlock, I nearly bawled like a baby – at my wedding to someone else. Did you mean that?” 

Sherlock nods and John’s arms tighten. “But far more than Mary,” he says, trusting John to understand what he means. “I didn’t think I should say that, though.”

John laughs and leans his forehead against Sherlock’s, careful to keep his eyes shut. “Maybe not.”

His mouth finds Sherlock’s again and they stop talking and it’s so perfect that it’s nearly terrifying. John kissing him is like the tide coming in and Sherlock feels that there is nothing that could save him from being swept out to sea now; he is helpless to this, to his need for this. There can be no more hiding it, denying it, trying to pretend he doesn’t care about this and need it with every cell of his being. It scares him, but his need for John is currently outweighing the uncertainty. John is pulling him down onto himself on the bed, getting his legs up under Sherlock’s and through the thin material of his pyjama pants, Sherlock can feel that John is aroused – as aroused as he is. This alone is something of a relief. He’d never thought that John would ever admit to being attracted to both genders, though Sherlock’s certainly thought so for a long time already. At least John isn’t being stuffy about it now, at any rate. Sherlock lets himself be pulled down, his stomach expanding and contracting against John’s, their erections pushing into one another’s. 

He is afraid to open his eyes. “Is this okay?” John asks, his voice just above a whisper, as though it’s not quite all right to ask it aloud. “Do you – ” He stops the question and Sherlock doesn’t know what the rest of it was to be. 

He hesitates, suspecting that John is concerned about the logistics of this, afraid of triggering another unwelcome response in Sherlock’s psyche. “I want to touch you,” Sherlock says, his eyes still tightly closed. 

He can hear John nodding from the movements of his hair on the blankets. “Anything you want,” he says. “But – what about you? Or – do you not want – that? Is it too… similar to what – ” He stops himself again, the awkward question hovering between them. _If I touch you, will it make you think of Magnussen? Will you feel like you’re out of control or being attacked?_

Sherlock bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he admits. “And I – don’t want to start something only to find out that I… can’t handle it. I don’t want that to happen. But could we do something else? Could I touch you?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” John says emphatically. “God, yes! Do you even know how long I’ve thought about that?” His hands on Sherlock’s face again, pulling it down and they kiss again and Sherlock lets himself silently revel in it, absorbing through his flesh and into his very soul. A bit later, John asks, breathily, “So what do you want to do, then? Do you want us to go on with our eyes closed, or is there some other way you can think of that you wouldn’t mind trying, or…? I also don’t want to hurt you. Your chest, I mean.”

Sherlock thinks for a bit. “Maybe if I sat with my back against the headboard and you sat in front of me?” 

John understands at once. “Right. Yes. Let me up, then.” 

Sherlock gets himself off John with some effort (and reluctance) and gets unsteadily to his feet, opening his eyes only when he has gained some distance from John. “You can open your eyes,” he says, looking down at him. 

John blinks and sits up, smiling at Sherlock. Sherlock smiles back, feeling like an idiot. “Perhaps you should lose those pyjamas,” John suggests, with just enough insinuation in his tone to cause a shiver to run down Sherlock’s spine. 

“Okay,” he says. “Are you going to – ?” 

“Yes, of course,” John hastens to reassure him. “And I can go first if you like. Sometimes that can… help.” He doesn’t explain or elaborate, but Sherlock catches this bit of tact and doesn’t comment on it. John thinks that he’s nervous. He knows that it’s going to be Sherlock’s first time with anyone, if he’s never even shared a bed before. And feeling like the only person exposed wouldn’t help. (John is so intelligent in so many respects.) Sherlock feels yet another wave of acute appreciation for everything that John is and does again, a feeling which trebles as John casually sheds his clothing as though it’s nothing of the slightest importance and stands there before him, bared, hard, and obviously completely comfortable. 

Sherlock’s eyes drink in his form and suddenly he feels self-conscious. He has never thought of himself as particularly unattractive, per se, but John wears his nudity as easily as his jumpers and jeans and Sherlock feels gawky and awkward and angular in comparison. John’s body is trim and muscular, just hairy enough to be masculine without being freakish about it. Sherlock hadn’t even developed body hair until well into puberty (also late) and has mixed feelings on the subject. Somehow on John, it’s just right. And his penis is very hard, flushed dark and swollen, gleaming wet at the tip, and the sight of it is thoroughly distracting, stopping him in his tracks. He cannot take his fascinated eyes from it. 

“Hey. Earth paging Sherlock Holmes,” John says, but he says it nicely, smiling. When Sherlock looks up at him, startled, John adds, “You’re staring a bit. Not that I mind, but you seem to have forgotten the bit about getting yourself naked, too.”

“Oh.” Sherlock remembers himself and pulls the t-shirt off slowly, carefully, in what is surely the world’s least appealing striptease. (He is completely unaccustomed to this and feels it keenly. Surely John won’t change his mind _now_.) He slides the pyjama pants down over his hips next and steps out of them, feeling his nudity as though every photon of light in the room is illuminating every pore and minute hair, every strange and unsightly part of himself, bared for John’s inspection. 

John is staring so hard that his gaze feels almost magnetic, as though it could pull the skin from Sherlock’s frame. “Oh my God,” he says, as though stunned. His eyes come up to Sherlock’s face. “You are – wow. God, I need to touch you! Let’s do it your way, though. Go sit down, then.”

Sherlock goes, feeling half in a daze. John follows and, carefully keeping his eyes from Sherlock’s face, gets onto the bed in front of him, sitting down between Sherlock’s thighs and leaning back against him. 

“Like this?” John asks. “I’m not hurting you?”

“You’re not hurting me.” John’s back is warm against his front and Sherlock gets his arms under John’s and lets his hands travel over John’s chest and stomach, exploring. Gathering information. Deeply relishing (and marvelling at) being allowed to touch him this way. It’s all happening so quickly that he feel dazed; it’s nearly too much information to absorb. John allows everything, leaning into him even harder as Sherlock strokes his belly and thighs and face, letting him do it at his own pace, not rushing him or apprehending him in any way. John tips his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes closed. “I love this,” he says, and Sherlock drops his face to kiss John’s neck, the side of his face, muttering his fervent agreement into John’s skin. 

“Can I?” he asks, moving his hands closer to John’s erection. 

In answer, John puts his hands over Sherlock’s and moves them there himself. “Please,” he requests, and Sherlock begins to touch him. 

Penises are strange things, he has often thought. These bits of the male anatomy that protrude so obviously, so demandingly when in need. John’s moves and twitches in his hands so responsively, just like John himself, who is breathing heavily and letting Sherlock do this, touch him, discovering John’s body for himself. He doesn’t guide, doesn’t say, _No, not like that; do it like this_. He does encourage, though, and Sherlock realises that he is very able to tell when John likes something he does, when he wants it to go faster or tighter. Sherlock’s own erection is flat up against John’s back, leaking profusely, and he’s rubbing himself against John’s back, unable to stop himself. He puts his legs over John’s, prising them further apart. John slides down a little, giving Sherlock better access to touch his testicles, cupping them in one hand as he continues to stroke John’s penis. From this angle, it’s not all that different from touching himself, but having John trembling and cursing in his arms is an entirely new experience. 

John starts making sounds that definitely contain more desperation, so Sherlock focuses on bringing him to completion, using both hands on John’s erection and jerking it hard, very quickly, and then John gasps out, his back arching up and away from Sherlock’s body, and the experience of feeling John Watson have an orgasm in his arms is unparalleled. John comes hard, his penis spending itself over Sherlock’s fists. Sherlock continues touching him through it until John gently pushes his hands away. “Now you,” he pants, still breathing hard. “Can you – is it enough, if you just keep on rubbing against me, or – ?”

“Not really,” Sherlock admits, still feeling self-conscious about the fact that he was even doing that. 

“Then touch yourself,” John orders, his breath still short. “Make yourself come. For me, Sherlock. Come on my back. I want to feel it.”

Sherlock feels his breath escape from his nose as John unwittingly (or was it??) hits several of his heretofore unknown buttons – giving a direct order, the request “for me”, and stating that he wants to engage with Sherlock in a specifically sexual way. Sherlock has always known that John liked him, even loved him as a friend, but this – this was inconceivable. It’s difficult to believe, to take in. He moves one of his damp hands from John to wrap around himself, much too aroused to feel too self-conscious about doing this in front of John, or in John’s presence, at least. His fist flies over himself so hard it feels like he is trying to pull his penis right off. It takes only thirty seconds or so before he feels it starting. John’s hands stroke his thighs as they contract around his torso, and then his legs go rigid, hips shunting forward, his knuckles digging into John’s back and then he is coming and coming and it’s hot and wet and spurting all over John’s back. It should feel shameful but it doesn’t; it only feels terribly, terribly good. 

When it’s over, Sherlock’s hearing returns to normal and he hears himself panting against John’s neck. Then John reaches back and up, his eyes closed, and pulls Sherlock’s mouth down to his again. 

It’s wonderful. The only thing wrong, Sherlock thinks, slightly dismally, is that it feels simultaneously a bit disappointing as well as more than a little ironic that the first orgasm he has ever had in another person’s presence should have occurred at his own hand, but it was nonetheless euphoric to do it with John there with him, and to have brought John’s about. 

And then John says, his breath still coming quickly, “I love you, you know,” and it stops mattering. 

*** 

When Sherlock wakes the next morning, he finds that he has turned in his sleep to curl himself around John. His eyes open and he immediately wonders if this is acceptable or not. For the rest of the previous day, nothing much had happened. John had made dinner later and they had watched television, at least until John had leaned over and started kissing his shoulder until Sherlock, eyes firmly closed, had pulled his chin up so that their mouths could meet. Honestly, he would have been perfectly content if it had gone further, but after twenty minutes or so, John had stopped kissing him and changed the channel to another news station, holding Sherlock’s left hand in both of his. They had gone to bed awhile later, each sleeping the way he had before. Sherlock had wondered if John was merely trying to be gentle, not to rush anything, but he hadn’t said anything. Now, he isn’t sure what the protocol is. To be on the safe side, he detaches himself from John and turns onto his other side with care not to aggravate the wound or to wake John. 

But then John follows, turning all the way over and says, his voice thick with sleep, “Hey, where did you go?” He puts his arm around Sherlock’s midsection, nose nuzzling the nape of his neck, but Sherlock stiffens without meaning to. John goes still, then lets go. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding instantly more alert. “Was that – not good?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, feeling idiotic. “I didn’t mind. Or I didn’t think I did, but – ”

“Never mind,” John says firmly, tactfully. “Come back here and do what you were doing before. I liked it.”

He turns the other way again, waiting, and after a moment Sherlock follows suit. “Are you sure?” he asks, feeling uncertain, but puts his arm over John’s side anyway. 

John puts his hand on Sherlock’s and twines his fingers into Sherlock’s. “Extremely. This is really nice. Don’t you go anywhere.”

A few seconds pass, then Sherlock makes himself relax, his shoulders and back releasing as he cautiously lets his weight settle into John’s back. “Okay,” he says, his lips in John’s hair. “I won’t.”

The next few days feel like a grand experiment. The one given factor that makes everything easier is that John is not at all thrown by the things that make Sherlock freeze up or trigger the panic, though they manage to avoid any large-scale attacks like the one after the Magnussen nightmare. Mary calls John’s phone one day as Sherlock is passing it on the kitchen table. Her face appears on the screen as Sherlock picks it up in idle curiosity, and he drops it at once, heart beating a little too quickly. He does not mention it to John. 

Meanwhile, the experiment continues. John said over breakfast the second day that they could do anything that Sherlock wanted, at any time, and that all he need do was say the word. Sherlock had appreciated this expansive gesture on John’s part, yet internally squirms at the thought of having the ball entirely in his own court. The evening of the second day, he decides to try it regardless. The fact is that he has wanted John so much, for such a long time, that having the open door right before his eyes and a John who is very compliant and absolutely willing is enough to overcome his own awkwardness about asking for it. 

They are sitting on the sofa in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, watching the late news again, and John is holding his hand and caressing the back of it with his thumb. It’s a tiny gesture to get anyone aroused, or perhaps it’s also that the news is slow and Sherlock isn’t paying much attention, but either way, he _is_ aroused. He can feel it starting, and when he subtly glances down a bit later, he can see it, too. The very thought of doing anything along those lines with John is enough to do it. And more than this, Sherlock feels a bone-deep hunger for John to actually touch him this time. It’s a great deal to be permitted to touch John, and he understands why John is being careful about returning it, not wanting to stir unpleasant memories of Magnussen’s wholly unwelcome touch, but the need remains, nonetheless. “John…” he says, and lets it trail off. 

“Hmm?” John turns his head slightly, but not all the way. They’re too close together for direct eye contact and he has been very good about remembering. 

Sherlock pauses. “I was… wondering if we could… try it again?” 

John’s mind is at least partially still on the news. “Try…?” His face turns a little more, though he keeps his eyes on the screen, possibly feeling Sherlock’s on his face. 

Sherlock’s silence is loaded; he cannot bring himself to put it into words. 

John catches on and looks at him now, eyes lowered to Sherlock’s lap. They flick up to Sherlock’s for a nanosecond, just long enough to confirm before carefully averting his face by an inch or two, and he starts to smile. “Ah,” he says. “Yes. Absolutely. What would you like to do?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, though it isn’t true. He would really like John to touch him the way he had done the previous day, but doesn’t know how to say this. 

John closes his eyes and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s neck, his hand cupping the far side of Sherlock’s face. He kisses Sherlock’s jaw, lips catching on his skin, tongue pressing into his throat and then catching his earlobe. “Are you turned on right now?” John murmurs into his ear, his hand skipping Sherlock’s chest to trail down his abdomen instead, casually unknotting the dressing gown to trail down the bare skin beneath it before landing on Sherlock’s right hip. 

Sherlock gives a jerky nod, knowing that John will catch it. 

“I have to admit, I’m dying to touch you,” John says, with a tone of confession. “I don’t want to do anything too sudden or that you don’t want – but – can I? Would that be all right? I feel like yesterday wasn’t quite fair, but I wasn’t sure how to reciprocate, exactly…”

“It was fine,” Sherlock says quickly, and means it. “But if you want to – yes. I would – like that.” (There. He’s managed to say it.) 

“God.” The word is exhaled against his cheek. “Close your eyes,” John commands. “I need to kiss you.”

Sherlock does it, his face already turning to John’s and John kisses him deeply for a long, wonderful moment, his hand slipping past the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama pants a moment later to find his stiff erection, and the first touch alone is enough to make Sherlock break away from the kiss, gasping, his entire body jolting in reaction. John turns his face downward, his head leaning into Sherlock’s cheek, watching Sherlock’s body rather than his face. His hand curls around Sherlock’s penis and strokes it and Sherlock can feel it in every part of his body, from his lips to his anus to his toes, the pleasure spreading through his veins like a foreign substance, like a drug, its fingers crawling along every capillary, along every cilia. His head falls back as he sucks in oxygen desperately. John’s other arm is around his shoulders and Sherlock has one around John's back. That hand is gripping John’s dressing gown and the other is digging into the sofa cushion, his knuckles clenched. 

“God, you are so sexy like this,” John says, his breath rapid and shallow, and Sherlock can hardly believe that John is completely aroused by this, by touching him this way. His mouth presses itself to Sherlock’s throat again, then to his upper chest, then (avoiding the wound) his belly. 

“John, what are you – ” Sherlock’s nervous words die in a gasped inhalation when John’s lips close over the head of his penis, his tongue caressing it without the slightest indication of disgust or reluctance. In fact, it can really only be called enthusiastic, yet Sherlock forces himself to focus above the unbearable pleasure of John’s mouth on him to stammer out, “J – you don’t – you don’t have to – ”

“Mmm,” John says, without removing his mouth, and the vibrations echo in Sherlock’s very testicles. He lifts away for a moment. “And if I want to? Can I? Please?” 

He waits and Sherlock spends an agonising second writhing between denying that he wants this _badly_ and the potential humiliation of admitting it. Lust wins out in the end. “All right,” he pants, cringing internally, but John resumes what he was doing, sucking on Sherlock’s penis with such determination and obvious desire that Sherlock gives in. His left hand balls in the back of John’s dressing gown again as John bends over his lap, mouth bobbing obscenely over him, and every nerve in his body is alight with furious pleasure. His breath is shuddering out, ragged and hoarse, and he is going to come any moment now, right in John’s mouth, flooding it with his release. “John – ” he gasps, at the crucial moment, and John goes still, not moving, his tongue digging into the head of Sherlock’s erection, encouraging it, and Sherlock cannot hold it back. He closes his eyes and feels his teeth clench as he comes and _comes_ , a sound not unlike a sob gusting through his teeth as it happens, every muscle in his body taut. 

John swallows and swallows again, the hand that was closed around the base of Sherlock’s erection moving to rub his knee instead, and then he transfers it to himself. 

Sherlock realises what he is doing and objects. “No – don’t – come here,” he says, and it’s unclear, but John understands, sitting up, his eyes closing automatically. Sherlock draws his face in and kisses him and John straddles his lap as he jerks himself off, his cheek pressed hard into the side of Sherlock’s face and he comes a moment later, his release spraying hotly over Sherlock’s bare chest and stomach. The urge to bond is intense. Sherlock feels himself awash in chemicals, clutching John to himself, fully aware that he never, ever wants to let go. His eyes are closed, his brain filled with vertigo as more emotion than he has ever felt before wracks his being. The very thought of someone being willing to do for him what John just did – unasked, and not at all reluctantly – fills him with a sense of wonder so profound it’s considerably closer to shock. The resultant mixture of gratitude, disbelief, euphoria, and more love than he knew he was capable of feeling has stripped him of the ability to speak, to form sentences. All he can do is hold John to himself so tightly that John probably can’t breathe, but he isn’t complaining. His arms are every bit as tight around Sherlock, there on the sofa, their skin sticking together from John’s release, and it doesn’t matter. This is the only thing that really matters. 

“I love you,” he finally manages to say, his chest hurting in entirely new ways as he gets the words out at last. 

John’s back heaves in his arms and he pulls back a little, eyes still closed. “I love _you_ ,” he responds, and this time it isn’t clear who reaches for whom first when they kiss. After, John shifts sideways a bit but keeps his face very close to Sherlock’s, his cheek pressed into Sherlock’s. “Would it have been like this if we had known from the first?” he asks, sounding wistful, his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. “Have we really wasted this much time? Or is it only like this now because it took so long to get here and had to go through so many obstacles?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and kisses him again. He suspects John is right. After, John shifts to the side and puts his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock takes John’s hand and winds all of his fingers into it. “I don’t know,” he says again. “You’re the expert on love.” 

John gives a laugh that’s closer to a snort. “This might be a good time to remind you that I unwittingly married a professional assassin – while simultaneously being in love with someone else.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. “You really mean that, don’t you. That you did all along.”

“I’m afraid so,” John says apologetically. He puts his other hand around both of theirs. “Which of your hands did Magnussen kiss?” he asks. 

“The right.” Sherlock watches as John lifts their hands to his mouth and kisses both of Sherlock’s, first the right, then the left. 

“Never again,” he says. He brings Sherlock’s hands to his mouth and kisses them again, one at a time. “I hate that he touched you.”

Sherlock hesitates. “John – I hated it, but – before you, before now, no one has ever – touched me the way you do. Not like this. Not with – love. Affection, yes, but never like this. I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t know it was so – different.”

John squeezes his hands, keeping his eyes carefully down. “It was overdue, then. I do believe it’s therapeutic, for what it’s worth. Not that I’m suggesting that we use ‘therapy’ as an excuse to have sex, but I do think it helps. And for the record, I intend on being the only person who ever kisses you again.”

Sherlock smiles at John’s eyelids. “Fine with me. What about you?”

He was expecting John to say the same, but John’s expression becomes very serious. “Well, yes, but…” he says, almost frowning. “Sherlock, what are we going to do about Mary? Surely there’s a plan. Your brother must have something in mind.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says honestly. “The last time we talked about it, it was more about what we’re going to do about Magnussen. He said he assumed I’d want to talk to you about it first. This is the first time it’s come up, so… what do _you_ want to do about Mary? I rather think it should be your decision.”

John lets his breath out slowly, making thinking sounds. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I mean, I do rather think she should go to prison for attempted murder. Regardless of what she’s done in the past, that part is definitely. Can that be proven?” 

“Mycroft has the bullet, as well as the surveillance from the hospital,” Sherlock says. “And he has the confrontation at Leinster Gardens on CCTV as well, including the part where she shot the coin. Our phone conversation was recorded. I would say that it constitutes as proof of intent, at least.”

“Including the part where you said she meant to hit the centre and missed and she didn’t deny it?” John asks. 

“Yes.”

“We should talk to Mycroft,” John decides. He turns his face slightly. “Call him tomorrow. Get him to come over.”

“All right.”

“And he’ll fill me in on the Magnussen plan,” John states. “I want to know. And I want to be part of it. I don’t want you going up against him alone.”

Sherlock tightens his fingers in John’s. “I like it when you get like this,” he says, a bit vaguely. 

“Like what?” John turns his face and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “A bit protective?”

“Yes. Precisely.”

“It’s not too overbearing, is it?” 

“Not at all.”

John smiles. “Good. Come into the loo,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then let’s go to bed. I can’t wait to sleep with you again.”

Sherlock follows him to the bathroom and watches John with that same sense of wonder and gratitude combined as John leans him against the counter and washes off his chest and stomach with hands gentler than any other person’s on earth, surely, hands that are capable of conveying so much tenderness and care just in the way they hold a flannel, and when John finishes cleaning him, Sherlock takes the flannel from him and tries to do the same as he wipes John’s skin and dressing gown clean, and by the end of it, John is kissing him again, and it is perfect. 

They go to bed and deliberately start off with Sherlock curled behind and around John this time and Sherlock spends half the night just lying there with John in his arms, hardly able to believe that it’s possible to feel so much at once, more alive than he’s ever felt in thirty-seven years, the slowly-healing hole in his chest notwithstanding. 

*** 

Mycroft is grim, as ever. He seems particularly annoyed by the development of their relationship, not that either of them has said or done anything to demonstrate it, but of course he knows. When the kettle boils and John gets up from the sofa to go and make tea, Mycroft gives Sherlock a pointed look from where he’s seated at the other end of the sofa. Sherlock is sitting in one of the desk chairs, which he finds easier to get out of than the sofa. He receives the look and shrugs in response, and the silent exchange just confirms everything in Mycroft’s eye. (Can he see that they were intimate again only hours earlier, upon waking?) They had woken in the same position, Sherlock’s erection nestled into John’s arse. John had reached back and pushed at Sherlock’s pants until he’d pulled them down, then brought Sherlock’s hand around to touch him. 

“I want to touch you,” he’d said, “but if being face-to-face doesn’t work for the time being, let’s do this. Go on – just thrust against me – yeah, like that – _oh_. God, yes!” 

And it had worked out quite nicely, Sherlock thinks now. He had fit himself into the crevice where John’s cheeks meet and thrust into it as he’d tugged at John’s erection and it had been rather wonderful. Now he shifts on the chair and meets his brother’s gaze evenly, uncowed by Mycroft’s unimpressed reaction. 

“Timing,” Mycroft says, sounding annoyed. “Honestly, Sherlock.”

“What’s that?” John brings the tea tray into the sitting room and puts it down on the coffee table. “You be mother and pour the tea, Mycroft. You know you want to, anyway. What’s this about timing?” 

His words are light but there is steel beneath them, and Sherlock has a moment of feeling ridiculously proud of being the person that gets this, gets to be with this man. John has made it adequately clear without a single word of threat that he is not about to stand for Sherlock taking abuse from anyone, not even his own brother. He has decided to be Sherlock’s official protector in all things, no matter how massive or how trivial, at least for the time being. (It’s exhilarating.) John sits down on the edge of the sofa, at least a metre away from Mycroft, and Sherlock smiles at him. John sends him a quick flash of smile in response, then turns his expectant gaze back to Mycroft, mouth tightening again. 

Mycroft sighs, his thin eyebrows up where his hairline should be. “I’m merely remarking that the timing of – this – could hardly be less convenient.” He pours three cups of tea as he speaks. 

John adds a lot of sugar to one cup and milk to two of them, then stirs and gets up to pass Sherlock his, fingers closing briefly around Sherlock’s before sitting down and deigning to respond to Mycroft. “Convenient?” John repeats coolly. “It was four years overdue.”

“And yet, given the situation with your _wife_ ,” Mycroft starts nastily, and John cuts him off again. 

“Yes. About Mary: what’s the plan?” he asks, crossing one knee over the other and linking his fingers around it. “Do explain.”

Mycroft turns his eyes upward in what might be a silent plea for patience, if he believed in deities apart from himself, then turns slightly to face John as well as Sherlock. He finishes stirring his own tea and picks it up, resting the saucer on his knee. “Let’s start with the good news. Well, good news and bad news; I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it. The pregnancy is false.”

John frowns. “What?” 

“What?” Sherlock repeats. “What do you mean?” 

Mycroft’s brows lift again. “It seems self-explanatory, surely; there is no baby. She deliberately made you both think that there was. It was a bid to strengthen her ties to John in the event that Magnussen were to make his move. He had already contacted Mary twice prior to his wedding telegraph. She knew that she was about to be exposed, so she dropped enough clues for Sherlock to pick up on, intending him to be the one to inform you,” he says to John. “It worked. However, and my condolences on the lack of impending fatherhood, but it does simplify things somewhat.” 

John takes a deep breath. Sherlock watches him carefully, but he doesn’t look particularly upset. Not that that means anything, per se. “Okay,” he says. “That’s good, then. I agree. It does make things less complicated. So what happens next?” 

“Next we stop Magnussen and try to find out if he actually has any hard information on her,” Mycroft informs him. “There is an entire plan in place. Sherlock will pretend to sell me out in return for any information he has on Mary. He will do so by giving Magnussen a laptop containing enough dummy files to allay his suspicions if he should decide to inspect it. I will drop enough hints around Mary to make her think that the laptop is the real deal as well. Then we will know whether or not Magnussen actually has anything. If he does, you will take it from him, at gunpoint if necessary.” He glances at Sherlock. “And then we will dispose of him. We may need him alive in the event of pass codes, keys, et cetera. Once we know what he knows, we will have no further use of him.” He picks up his cup of tea and drinks. “It is possible that he does know something about Mary. I am particularly interested in knowing what her ties to Moriarty are, if any.”

“I mentioned him to her once,” John says. “She claimed not to have even heard of him, not even the big trial. She told me she was living abroad when that happened, though obviously that can’t be true.” 

“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Mycroft says. “In the event that Magnussen’s exposé of Mary is going to be nothing more than media speculation and gossip – highly likely, given the validity of most of today’s news reporting – then we have no need of Magnussen.”

“I thought you said he was under your protection,” John says, scowling at Mycroft. 

“He was,” Mycroft says curtly. “That was before certain events.” 

“You mean when he assaulted Sherlock in the hospital,” John says flatly. When Mycroft inclines his head ever so slightly, John adds, “Well, good. I want him dead. But I’m going with Sherlock. You’re not sending him in alone. Not this time.”

Mycroft favours him with a slight smile. “Agreed,” he says. “That was the plan. Now: the current plan is for Magnussen to be killed ‘by accident’ in crossfire when I arrive with your back-up. Sherlock will be threatening Magnussen for his cooperation or papers, whichever it is, but this is also our plan B: if anything goes wrong or we cannot get a clear shot at Magnussen without hitting one of the two of you or some such event, Sherlock will pull the trigger himself. In any event, Magnussen needs to be killed on his patio where there is no surveillance. My internal agents will be the only witnesses. However, should something go wrong, we will play out the theatre of an arrest. We will say something along the lines of sending Sherlock back into the field as punishment. This is all to see how Mary reacts. We will then stage a ‘resurrection’ of sorts of one James Moriarty. Assuming we don’t find anything solid at Appledore, which we are presuming will be the case, her reaction will be most telling. You will need to watch her,” Mycroft says, speaking to John. “We’ll arrange a code term between the three of us, and if Mary’s reaction is in any way out of line with that of a person who has supposedly never heard of Moriarty and has no personal connection to him, we will take her in for questioning. If nothing else, we have proof of her attempt on the life of my brother. We can always start with that.” 

“Okay,” John says. “Fine. But how am I going to watch her and all of that? And how do you plan on dropping hints about your laptop and such?” 

“Excellent question,” Mycroft says. He looks at Sherlock for a moment, then turns back to John and states, “You are going to forgive Mary. Or pretend to. You will invite her to Christmas dinner at our parents’ house. Our parents will be fully informed as to the situation. We will assume that Mary will arrange for surveillance of her own – likely audio only; video would take her too long to install. At the point when the two of you depart for Appledore, the rest of us will be unconscious. When Mary wakes, my mother in particular will be watching her. I believe Sherlock would also prefer to have his protégé from his preferred drug den along for back-up, for my parents’ sake. He’s useless at hand-to-hand combat but decent with a firearm, as it transpires.”

John listens to all of this, then looks at Sherlock for confirmation. “I’m going to forgive Mary?” he repeats. “For how long?” 

“Only until the day I get ‘sent away’,” Sherlock tells him quietly. “Five or six days or so. Is that all right?” 

John makes a sound of disbelief. “That’s a long time to pretend that everything is all right between us!” he says. “I mean, to get along with someone is one thing, but when you’re actually married? How am I supposed to fake that?” 

“Think of it as espionage,” Mycroft tells him dryly. “Any other questions at this point?” 

“Yeah, one,” John says, before Sherlock can say anything. “Are you really expecting Sherlock to be able to just shoot Magnussen without any legal repercussions?” 

“I do,” Mycroft informs him. “The only witnesses are already party to this plan. Lady Smallwood herself designed it, with a specific request that it be Sherlock who pulls the trigger. After some reflection, I would personally prefer it to be one of my agents so that there is no question of a court case for Sherlock, but we will get it done however it must be done. It is in the interests of our government that Magnussen be eliminated and there are no legal channels through which to do it. You have a reputation to maintain, Doctor Watson. Smallwood’s people would prefer it not to be a celebrated war veteran – having it be my eccentric detective brother would be far more palatable. I realise you have moral objections to this, as well you should. However, allow me to appeal to your medical side and remind you, as I presumed you have discovered by now, that Sherlock is experiencing some ongoing trauma from the assault, as minor as it may have appeared. Having consulted with several psychiatrists of my acquaintance – you do recall that I have a number of acquaintances in the field – I have been given to believe that the action of eliminating Magnussen could significantly aid Sherlock in his battle against the trauma.” 

John holds Mycroft’s gaze for a long moment, then nods. “Then I’m on board,” he says, his voice hard. 

Mycroft looks satisfied. “Good,” he says, and gets to his feet with difficulty. “Then I will be in touch.” He nods at Sherlock and departs. 

Once the downstairs door has closed, John comes over and puts his arms around Sherlock, standing in front of him. Still seated, this puts Sherlock’s head at chest-level and he gets his arms around John’s waist. For a long time neither of them speaks. Finally, Sherlock says, “You understand why I need to do this? Not to kill him myself, but be involved in this.” 

“Yes,” John says briefly. “But I have to be there with you. I don’t want you facing him without me. Never again.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “I want you to be there.”

“If he tries anything – even the smallest, meanest of things, I promise I will stand between you and him. No matter what.” John’s arms tighten fiercely. 

“I know you will. But I don’t want you to have to,” Sherlock tells him. “As long as Mycroft arrives on time, we’ll be fine. We just have to get him outside. Keep him talking. Lure him out there. Whatever it takes, just as long as it’s not on camera.” 

“Right.” John sighs. “And then, once it’s all finished, we finally get to have our old life back?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him, speaking into his chest. “Only it will be better this time.”

“Yes,” John agrees, kissing the top of his head. “It will.”

*** 

“You’re not worried about me and Mary, are you?” John asks him two nights later, in bed. 

He is lying with his head on Sherlock’s left shoulder, his arm draped over Sherlock’s lower abdomen. Sherlock is still breathing quickly from what just happened several minutes ago. “What about you and Mary?”

“I mean when I have to go live with her again. You know – about – well, this. Being in bed together.” 

Now, more than ever, Sherlock wishes he could look at John directly while speaking about something like this. That would mean needing more distance, however, and he does not want more distance. John’s proximity has become his new addiction; he craves it all of the time. “No,” he says, a trifle shortly. “It’s – not my favourite part of the plan, but I do think it necessary.”

“Five or six days is going to feel like so long,” John says, sighing. His hand strokes over Sherlock’s stomach. “I can’t imagine being back there. Going back into that. It won’t be real, but parts of it will _feel_ real. But I’m not going to be doing this with her. Just so that’s clear. I won’t kiss her or touch her. I couldn’t if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.”

“You’re sure?” It’s difficult to ask, to even think of, the jealousy and resentment practically burning holes through his stomach lining when he imagines it, which he has been trying not to do. “Not even – I mean, she would likely expect it. Especially when you forgive her.”

“Listen to me,” John says seriously. He pushes himself up on one elbow, moving far enough away to keep his gaze from being a trigger. “I told you: I’ve chosen you, and nothing is going to change that. I can’t kiss someone I don’t love any more. I don’t love Mary any more, and I’m surer than ever that I always did love you. This isn’t a competition. You’ve won. I’m yours. For good.” His eyes search Sherlock’s. “Okay?”

Sherlock wants to believe it and is surprised to find that most of him does already. “Okay.”

“Close your eyes,” John says, and bends to kiss him for a long moment before settling himself back onto his shoulder. 

Sherlock hesitates, then asks a question that’s been on his mind since Mycroft’s visit. “About the child,” he says, then leaves it there. “Are you upset?” he asks, his voice low. He wants the answer to be no. This is one area in which he cannot compete with Mary, nor does he want to. He does not want a child here, even John’s. He would have accepted it, had the pregnancy been real. (Anything for John’s sake, though he preferred not to think about that particular possibility.) 

John takes his time answering. “A little,” he says finally, “but I don’t see how it was going to work. I mean, now it doesn’t matter, it’s a moot point. I suppose that if Mary and I were still together, I would be a bit disappointed. But knowing that it was going to mean sharing the custody of a newborn, or not getting it at all, I guess I had sort of steeled myself for those possibilities, neither of which are what you would call ideal, so – no. Given the circumstances, this is definitely the best way that could have turned out.” He presses his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I chose you, and I knew what I was doing when I did so. It’s not something I’ve thought about in terms of having regrets at all, whereas with Mary I was constantly having to reassure myself that I had made the right choice. I didn’t, and that’s why. But with you – since you were shot and I decided to stay with you, I haven’t questioned it once. I belong with you, at your side. That’s the truth. You are home to me, and you have been since the day I first moved in with you. I can’t believe how long it took me but now that I know, I’ll never not know again.” 

Sherlock’s throat tries to close. “Come here,” he says gruffly, and John crawls on top of him, eyes already closed, and they kiss for a long time. Sherlock drowns in it, in John, and wishes that the entire ordeal were already over. 

*** 

The next eight weeks are like something out of a film, Sherlock thinks. He has never experienced happiness like this before, even with the constant underlying pressure of both Magnussen and Mary on the horizon. The wound is healing and the nightmares have started to fade. John is learning how to cope with them, too, though the Mary-related nightmares make him angry in a different way than the ones with Magnussen’s cold eyes and damp touch. He has learned to keep his distance when Sherlock first wakes, reassuring him only with his words until Sherlock can handle his touch, and then only when approached in the right ways. From the side is usually best, so John will put his hand near Sherlock’s heart, lightly enough to avoid hurting him, but holding it through the skin as though he can physically slow its pounding as his voice murmurs comfortingly. Once it has passed and only then, will he ask what it was about and allow himself to be angry. Sometimes, after the attack has worn off, he will leave Sherlock under the pretext of getting him a glass of water, but Sherlock knows that John himself needs the distance, especially when the dream was about Mary or the shot. 

“How did I not see it?” he demanded one night, getting back into bed with Sherlock as Sherlock took slow sips of the water John brought. 

He’d shaken his head. “She was a secret agent. She knows how to keep people from seeing things.”

John had processed this for a minute or two. “At least you didn’t say it was because I ‘see but don’t observe’ for once.”

Sherlock had smiled into the glass and said nothing, and John had leaned over, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back and laying his head on his arms. 

“What did we do to deserve this?” he’d asked. 

Sherlock, very much aware of the fact that Mary’s perfidy is as much a trauma for John, a man who had already had deeply-ingrained trust issues years before any of this had taken place, had put his hand on John’s back and rubbed circles into it. He doesn’t know why this helps, but it does when John does it for him. And so they comfort each other in those moments. 

Otherwise, they are happy. John continues to suggest creative new ways for them to experiment that will avoid putting him directly behind Sherlock or put their faces too closely together. One day they are on the sofa, pretending to watch a film (in Sherlock’s case; it’s possible that John really is trying to watch it), but actually in the beginning stages of having sex. John is lying back in his arms, as Sherlock’s chest can now bear his weight and Sherlock is kissing his right ear and the side of his neck, his hands loosely stroking John into full hardness. His own erection is fitted in between John’s thighs and into the cleft of his arse. John’s pyjama pants are still on, but pushed down past his arse.

“You’re – not paying attention to the dialogue,” John says with difficulty as Sherlock’s teeth close around the cartilage of his ear, his fingers tugging gently at John’s testicles. 

“Mm. Possibly not.”

“Wanker. I’m going to start holding weekly quizzes on the content of the things we watch together.”

“Are you saying you want me to stop this?” Sherlock asks, his voice deliberately low, aware of its effect on John’s libido. 

“Not remotely.” John puts his hands over Sherlock’s and tips his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes already closed. “Kiss me.”

The kiss doesn’t stop until neither of them can breathe any more, Sherlock thrusting frantically into the cleft of John’s arse from beneath him, his hands and John’s jerking at John’s erection together. Sherlock comes first, exhaling vocally into John’s ear as he spurts all over John’s thighs. John curses and his entire body spasms, heavy streams of his release bursting out over Sherlock’s fist and onto John’s chest and belly. 

Sherlock pants into John’s hair, his breath rasping in his throat. “God, I love this,” he says, too undone to filter himself for once, too spent to care.

“What do you love?” John is breathless, his back heaving against Sherlock’s front. 

“This. You. Doing this with you. All of it. When I think of all the time we could have been doing this…”

“I know.” John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder again, having raised it as he’d come closer to his climax, watching himself in both their hands. Now it drops limply back, heavy and relaxed. “We’ll just have to make up for it by having as much sex as humanly possible from now on.”

“All right,” Sherlock says. The orgasm makes his limbs feel drunk and loose, drunk on John, his tongue looser than normal, too. He fits his nose in behind John’s earlobe and says, “Though I must say, this particular position does seem rather submissive for you. I always thought you’d be more dominant in this area.”

“Sherlock,” John says lazily, without opening his eyes, “if you ever think that anything I do, in bed or out, is _submissive_ , you’ve got another thing coming. I don’t care if your cock is so far up my arse you can see it down my throat – that still won’t change a damned thing. I am not a particularly submissive person, thank you very much. Not that there would be anything wrong with it if I were. I’m just saying that whose cock is where or who’s on top has no bearing on that basic fact.” 

Sherlock absorbs this, his brain still occupied. 

John chuckles.

“What?” 

“That shut you up, didn’t it?” John turns his face, eyes still closed but smiling behind their lids along with his mouth. “You’re still stuck back on the idea of your cock being inside me. Aren’t you.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “No,” he tries, but it sounds lame and he knows that John will see through it instantly, which he does. 

“Liar.” John is affectionate. “I only haven’t suggested it because I didn’t want to strain your heart. Give it bit more time. And then we’ll do it both ways and see what we like the best. All right?” 

Sherlock has to blink and remind himself that somehow, bizarrely, this is reality. John got married, Sherlock got shot, and now John is talking about _this_. 

(He isn’t complaining. Far from it.) 

*** 

Just when it’s been a week since the last nightmare and Sherlock has begun to think that they won’t return, he has one so intense and so vivid that he thinks the images and sensations will be indelibly inscribed on his brain for the rest of his life. In the dream, he isn’t aware that he is dreaming. He is lying in bed at Baker Street and for some reason Magnussen is in bed beside him. His eyes are open; Sherlock can feel them on his skin like lasers boring into his skull and reading it like a newspaper. 

“Go on sleeping, Mr Holmes,” he says, his gaze drilling holes into Sherlock’s brain tissue. 

Sherlock wants to ask what he’s doing there and where John is, but his tongue is locked and he cannot speak. 

“Is that the toilet over there?” Magnussen asks. 

Sherlock cannot answer but his heart is thumping audibly. He knows that Magnussen can hear it, that he knows that Sherlock is afraid and cannot move or call out. 

“Well, why bother?” Magnussen asks idly, as though the question bores him. “It’s probably just as filthy as the rest of this flat. I might as well just – ” He is fidgeting with his clothes, unbuttoning his trousers and Sherlock is rigid with horror at the fact. Nothing that could follow Magnussen’s trousers being opened could be good. “This is where the good doctor sleeps, isn’t it?” Magnussen croons. He makes a _tsk_ -ing sound. “So dirty. But then, he sleeps with _you_.” More rustling of fabric and then Sherlock feels it: the damp, wet touch of Magnussen’s penis on his thigh, and he’s naked (was he naked before?) and doesn’t want to be. Magnussen gives a soft grunt, then begins to piss on Sherlock’s leg. It’s hot and wet and runs down Sherlock’s thigh and seeps into the sheets. Magnussen touches Sherlock’s arm, caressing it as he pisses on him. “You’ll get used to it,” he reminds Sherlock, the cold sweat of his hand leaving trails on Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock is crying out but no sound will come out of his mouth, his heart hammering in his throat, a beeping sound going off over his head somewhere. And then Magnussen is gone and Mary is standing just inside the doorway, looking at the soiled sheets where John normally sleeps, her hands linked backwards, the yellow poppies twisted in her fingers. Her head is tilted to one side as though in detached curiosity. Then her head straightens and she looks Sherlock in the eye and suddenly she’s right there, beside the bed, much too close to him. She holds one of the poppies down over his face like an oxygen mask, the way a nurse would, but it’s huge and covers nearly all of his face, suffocating him. All he can see is her eyes above the edge of the poppy, wide and sinister and green. 

“You don’t tell him,” Mary says, meaning the urine and the ruined bedding. Her eyes are hard, her eyebrows curved sinisterly, like a comic book villain. But she might be referring to the fact that she is holding a poisonous flower down over his nose and mouth, trying to kill him again. “You don’t tell John.” 

Sherlock wakes with a shout and sits up, flinging the blankets off. His first instinct is to look to his left. John is there next to him, his leg draped loosely over Sherlock’s, and in his sleep he’s developed an erection which is pressing into Sherlock’s thigh. There is no sign of wetness of any kind, but the nightmare is still vividly, horribly alive in his mind and Sherlock is out of the bed and stumbling toward the bathroom in two seconds, nauseated. There isn’t time to close the door; he is on his knees in front of the toilet heaving up his dinner. 

John is awake and saying his name urgently, coming to the bathroom doorway and Sherlock hates that he’s seeing him this way. 

Tears are streaming down his face, sweat pooling on his forehead. He pulls the lever to flush away the mess but stays where he is, bent over the toilet. He hears John running the water in the sink for awhile and then John is there, a warm hand on his back. He _is_ nude; they both are, having fallen asleep that way. It had been novel in all the best of ways – for all the times that they’ve had sex in some form, they’ve never gone to sleep naked, and Sherlock had loved the feeling of it, of having so much of John to absorb at once, so much physical information to memorise. Trust Magnussen and Mary to manage to ruin that retroactively, too. 

“Hey,” John says gently. “You all right?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, his eyes closed, the tears still tracking over his face. He hates this, being victim to his own subconscious and its distorted, disturbing memories this way. John puts a glass of water in his hand and he rinses his mouth for a long time, then hands the glass back. John refills it and gives it to him again and he drinks this time. He lets himself be tugged backwards so that he’s sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. 

John settles himself beside him. “Of course not,” he says, to his own question. He keeps his eyes down and dabs at Sherlock’s forehead and face with a damp flannel. “Tell me?” 

Sherlock frames it all as neutrally as possible, but he cannot keep the horror out of his voice – the loathsome discovery of Magnussen in bed with him, the revulsion and shame of having been urinated upon, and Mary’s continued threat, as though her telling John would cost Sherlock John’s love. He doesn’t say this, precisely, but after the fact that part seems to clarify itself in his mind. That the trauma itself could cost Sherlock John in general, that John could get tired of playing nursemaid to him as he goes through this. He’s a doctor, of course, but not a psychoanalyst or a therapist. 

John listens in silence, with as much patience as ever. At the end, he sighs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he says in disgust, meaning dream-Mary’s reaction to the whole thing. “Another murder attempt. And as if anyone could blame _you_ for having been pissed on, or imply that I would leave you or something if I found out!”

“It felt so – real,” Sherlock makes himself say, looking at the cabinets under the sink without really seeing them. He does not mention that this is a real fear of his, that John could get tired of dealing with this. 

John takes his hand and twines his fingers into it, putting his other hand around it, too. His hands are small and square and beautiful and Sherlock loves them in secret. Just feeling them and seeing them around his own, larger hand is a small comfort. It normalises this, restores reality, anchors him in it once again. “You were assaulted,” John states flatly. “It may seem like a minor thing but just because he didn’t actually touch your genitals or make you touch his, or force himself inside you makes it no less an assault and a threat. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ That’s the worst part, the suggestion that you would be submitted to his touch over and over again until you’ve become accustomed to it. It was a threat. And touching someone non-consensually in any way is a violation, under any circumstances. You were under the influence of morphine and unable to tell him not to, to remove yourself from the situation, or to call for help. That’s an assault. Furthermore, his visit to our flat, when he pissed in the fireplace – that’s a very clear message that he hasn’t got an ounce of respect for you or your belongings, that he can literally piss in your sitting room without a shred of remorse. He was extending the message to you personally, saying that he feels he has the right to do absolutely anything he wants with you because he sees you as being powerless to stop him or complain in any way.”

“And he would be correct,” Sherlock says, his heart rate finally beginning to slow to normal speeds again. 

“No, he wouldn’t,” John says, disagreeing flatly. “Because he is going to die on Christmas Day. If not at your hand, then someone else’s. And we are going to be there to see it. And when he’s been buried, you and I will go and find his grave and then we’ll piss on it.”

Sherlock laughs, which takes them both by surprise, echoing around the small room. He tightens his fingers in John’s. “It might mean a trip to Denmark.”

“Splendid. I’ve never been to Scandinavia. We’ll go on a cruise of the fjords and make Mycroft pay for it,” John says determinedly, and Sherlock’s heart warms. 

He turns his head, eyes already closed. Maybe John won’t want to kiss him given that he’s just been sick, but John kisses him anyway, just lips on lips, then puts his arms around Sherlock and holds him for a long time, there on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. 

“Come on,” he whispers after a bit. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Sherlock lets himself be pulled up and John doesn’t release his hand as they go back into the bedroom. John shows him that the sheets are still dry and clean, reminds him again that it was only a dream while pressing kisses to Sherlock’s temple. This time Sherlock curls himself around John without John turning the other way. Perhaps it’s too much, too clingy, but he can’t help this, actively taking John’s comfort in winding all of his limbs around him and burying his face in John’s chest. And this time he knows that John is waiting for him to fall back asleep first, watching over him like a silent and vengeful guardian. He listens to John’s heart beating through his chest and thinks that if Magnussen ever does anything to John or threatens him in any way, he _will_ kill him. Whether or not he can handle it himself is one question, but the thought of John being forced to endure anything from Magnussen is unthinkable. 

*** 

Mycroft’s visits become slightly more frequent as Christmas approaches. John begins, under instructions, to send Mary the occasional text message again, mostly asking about the (false) pregnancy. He takes care to show Sherlock every message first and all of Mary’s replies, giving Sherlock his phone so that he can read them for himself. It’s an obvious demonstration of his trust, knowing that Sherlock could read through the entire message stream if he wanted, verifying that John has left nothing out, which he hasn’t. Mary’s responses grow gradually warmer, though her anger at John’s abandonment, particularly during the so-called pregnancy, has not abated. She asks about Christmas before John can bring it up, and John manages to write a text that doesn’t sound too stiff in which he invites her to dine with the Holmes connection. She asks in her response why they can’t just be on their own and John tells her flatly that he doesn’t think that he’s ready for that, and also that he’s already accepted the Holmes’ invitation on behalf of both of them. Mary sulkily agrees to come after that, and Mycroft begins to make counter-intelligence arrangements. 

He plans to stay at their parents’ home for the entire week leading up to Christmas Day for security alone. The day before he leaves, he collects Bill Wiggins and brings him to Baker Street for a final meeting. Bill makes a test round of punch and they test it on Mycroft, John hovering grimly nearby just in case. Mycroft revives precisely when he should and they congratulate Bill and let him go. Everyone’s lines are rehearsed – all of the bits and pieces they’re planning on for Mary’s sake. They are assuming that she will accept being given a tour of the house early on and likely use it to drop microphone feeds around the premises. They have arranged for Father to be the one to give the tour, as he comes across as less observant than the rest of them. 

“And _is_ ,” Sherlock had pointed out when Mycroft outlined this part of the plan. 

Mycroft had shrugged. “He’s not an idiot, though. I think it quite likely that Ms Morstan will underestimate him, as people often do. But he’ll be watching. We all will.” 

He goes down the stairs now. When the door shuts behind him, John sighs and picks up the tea tray and takes it into the kitchen. He puts it down beside the sink but doesn’t turn on the water or anything, instead leaning against the counter with his shoulders hunched, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock feels a prickle of apprehension. He gets up from the sofa and goes over, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen. “John? Is everything… all right?” he asks, feeling uncertain. 

John’s head drops downward. “Yeah,” he says, though it’s not particularly convincing. “Fine.”

“Tell me,” Sherlock insists. “John. Please.”

John turns around and crosses his arms, shaking his head. He tries for a smile that doesn’t quite work. “It’s just – we’re doing all this – you, your brother, your parents, even Bill sodding Wiggins – all because I went and married possibly the worst possible person I could have chosen. And now we’re all here – you’ve been shot, by my _wife_ , who’s threatened you even though you were trying to help her and contributed to the trauma you’re currently going through, you’ve been assaulted by the world’s slimiest bastard around, and now we’re staging an operation in your parents’ house on Christmas Day, of all things! Wherein you might end up having to kill someone and possibly getting arrested for it, and – I just – it’s all my fault and I don’t even know what to say. How to apologise.”

“John!” Sherlock tries not to sound exasperated as he swiftly crosses the kitchen, stopping a safe distance from John’s eyes. “Don’t say that. You couldn’t have known. Obviously you didn’t know! If Mary _was_ connected to Moriarty, it could even be that she targeted you, singled you out. You know that’s Mycroft’s theory, and he’s never wrong. If she did, how could you have known? She was a nurse who worked at your clinic. Anyone could have fallen for that. Workplace romance and all that. It’s not your fault. And it’s certainly not your fault that she shot me, or that Magnussen exists at all.”

John’s smile is feeble but works this time. “I know, I suppose, but it just seems like – if I had been more honest with myself about how I felt about you from the first, maybe we could have avoided all of this.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock says. “And possibly if you had, back then, I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do with it if you’d told me how you felt. Possibly I would have been an enormous arse about the entire thing.”

John’s smile grows. “Probably,” he says. “But then I would have kissed you anyway and you’d have gone weak in the knees and come round.”

Sherlock smiles back, but then it fades. “And then Moriarty would still have happened, still have made me falsify my suicide in front of you, and possibly, had we already been in this sort of relationship back then, you really would have never forgiven me. We’ll never know what could or would have happened. Only what’s going to happen. And even that is highly uncertain.”

“One thing is certain, though,” John tells him, his eyes dark and soft in the incandescent kitchen light, offset by the firmness around his mouth. “No matter what happens, from here on in, you’ll always have me. Nothing is ever going to change that. I know I tell you all the time, but – I love you. I love you now and I always will. I don’t intend to ever be with anyone else again. You are my life and mine has no meaning without you. I learned that the hard way and I’m not likely to forget it.”

Sherlock’s throat closes. He tries to say John’s name and it comes out half-strangled. John comes over and reaches for him, his eyes already closed. Sherlock looks at him, his hands on John’s firm shoulders, and suddenly he knows that not even Magnussen can transform this particular moment. “John.” He says it again and this time it works. “Open your eyes.”

John’s brow furrows. “Are you – is that – ”

“Please. I need to see you properly.” Sherlock holds his breath, but John’s eyes open, the fringes of his thick golden lashes individually visible at this proximity, the irises deep blue, pupils pooling darkly, and all he sees is John. No one but John. Emotion overwhelms him and he puts his mouth on John’s and kisses him for a long, long time. Their hands move over each other’s backs and arses and faces and after awhile John backs him into the counter and begins to undo Sherlock’s trousers, looking steadily into his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t break the gaze as he does the same thing, and it feels different this way, looking at each other the entire time, their intentions one hundred percent clear and readable in the other’s face, and Sherlock feels as though they could all but communicate telepathically this way. The intensity is exquisite. He knows precisely when John will slip his hand into Sherlock’s underwear to close around him and mirrors it, his eyes never leaving John’s. They touch each other slowly, almost reverently, and John’s very gaze is saying a hundred different things. Sherlock can feel everything they both feel flowing between them like a beam, a notion he would have scoffed at a few years ago, but not anymore. John is even breathing in tandem with him. And Sherlock knows now that he wants even more of this – he wants John within him, in his very blood, and then remembers that he already has John’s blood in his from the transfusion. It’s perfect. This would be a completion, then. “I need you to be inside me,” he says, and John nods as though he knew that Sherlock was going to say that. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and Sherlock barely remembers going from one room to the other. John removes most of the bedding and then comes to peel Sherlock’s clothes off him as Sherlock removes his in exchange. John guides him wordlessly onto the bed, on his back, following closely. He fits himself into the space beside Sherlock and begins to touch him, his right hand stroking and caressing Sherlock’s body as the left touches his face, his eyes still locked with Sherlock’s. Sherlock feels more open than he has ever felt before – open and fully trusting for, possibly, the first time in his life. John can read everything about him – and he knows down to the bone that John won’t despise him for anything he sees there. And in turn, he sees John actively deciding to trust all the way, sees his firm commitment, sees the lengths he would go to for Sherlock, the depth of his love. 

John opens the lubricant and rubs it over his fingers. When his fingers close around Sherlock’s penis again, he bends to kiss Sherlock slowly, sensuously, and Sherlock is dying from the unbearable intimacy of it. John continues to kiss him as his fingers work backwards, pressing and touching and exploring, and when they begin to press at Sherlock’s entrance, John lifts his face and looks down at him again, watching, silently asking, and Sherlock nods. John continues to look into his eyes as his fingers slip inside him, the stretch tight and uncomfortable, yet welcome because it’s John and he wants this. “All right?” John whispers, and Sherlock nods again. 

“Yes,” he breathes, just to say it aloud, despite the word being shaky. 

John kisses his chin and his throat as his fingers work and slowly the pain eases and pleasure begins to replace it. “Good?” John asks now as Sherlock hears himself making rather needy sounds. 

He nods instantly. “Yes – it’s – why didn’t we do this before?” he gets out, breathing hard. It’s _good_. John has two fingers all the way into him now, thrusting rapidly into him and Sherlock feels himself instinctively pushing back against them, craving more. 

“Because it wasn’t time yet,” John says simply. “But now it is.” He puts his mouth on Sherlock’s again, withdrawing his fingers and settling himself on top of him.

His penis is already nudging into the place where his fingers were and Sherlock instinctively draws his legs up and back, trying to open himself more. John is still kissing him as he slowly, slowly penetrates Sherlock and the sensation of it, of feeling John enter him at long last, is indescribable. Sherlock feels as though he is complete at last, that there was a need for this within him, both emotionally and physically, that needed John, and now that John is here, inside him, part of him, Sherlock knows with his entire being that he will never not need this, not want it. John _is_ him now. Their DNA should be fused together permanently. Sherlock isn’t entirely certain what to do with his legs but wraps them around John, his feet on John’s thighs as John settles himself all the way inside. 

For a moment he just waits, giving Sherlock’s body time to adjust. “Okay?” he asks, and now his voice is shaking, too. 

Sherlock finds his own. “Yes,” he says, looking up into John’s face. “Very. Extremely.”

John’s face is terribly intense. “I love you,” he says. 

Sherlock reaches up to touch his face, saying it silently, with all of his being, but unable to speak it now. He would go to pieces if he did. 

John exhales deeply, and begins to move within him, Sherlock’s hand still on his cheek, their eyes still on each other’s. The tight burn of the stretch fades quickly, and very soon the pleasure returns, glowing and prickling and swelling with Sherlock. He can feel precisely how hard John is, can feel his penis fully engorged as it thrusts in and out of him. Every thrust is making the pleasure grow hotter and hotter and Sherlock can feel his erection beginning to leak. John is breathing through his mouth, his abdominal muscles flexing and releasing and clenching against Sherlock’s, never looking away. Sherlock can feel John’s orgasm approaching but knows just as surely that John will make himself wait until Sherlock’s has come. It’s close – Sherlock can feel the spiral tightening and tightening and tightening within him, can hear himself hardly breathing and then John shifts his weight to his left arm and grasps at Sherlock’s penis and Sherlock finally closes his eyes as the orgasm bursts over him like a tidal wave. His body erupts, covering his chest and stomach in stripes of hot fluid, and now John stops holding himself back and is plunging into him over and over and over again until his body goes still, his penis twitching inside Sherlock and then the warm rush floods into him. John’s hips pull back and thrust once more, hard, and more warmth gushes out, filling Sherlock like a benediction. 

He collapses onto Sherlock, still moving a little within him, as though he can’t get enough of it even though it’s finished and they’re both spent, and it causes Sherlock’s softening penis to leak out a bit more, too. He feels whole, wonderfully complete, and as though emotion is seeping from his very pores and into the sheets. He presses John into himself as though trying to chemically bond their bodies together, never wanting the moment to end. 

Awhile later, when they’ve pulled themselves together and are lying back against the headboard (Sherlock trying not to want a cigarette) with their limbs draped all over one another’s, Sherlock gives voice to a thought he’s had since John opened his eyes. “Maybe I don’t need to see Magnussen die to stop the trauma. Maybe all I ever needed was you.”

John smiles, but the smile fades. He picks up Sherlock’s right hand and kisses it, as though still trying to banish the stain of Magnussen’s mouth. “I don’t think it works like that,” he says, nicely. “We have to go through with the operation anyway, and I can’t help but think that it could be cathartic for you to see it, to know that he’s really gone. Otherwise it could never end.”

Sherlock turns his head to look deeply into John’s eyes again. There is no shadow of Magnussen’s cold, dead eyes, or Mary’s Venus fly trap eye there. He knows that Mary’s eyes are blue, but at the hospital that time, they looked green and now he always sees them that way. “What if it never ends anyway?” he asks, finally saying out loud. 

John’s eyes track over his face. “Then we’ll just keep on dealing with it as best we can,” he says. “Why?” His eyebrows come together a bit. 

“Just wondering,” Sherlock says, looking from John’s left eye to his right. He wants to put his nose against John’s soft lashes and see what it feels like. He wants to spend an eternity learning every detail of John this way, unravel him like a puzzle and allow him to do the same in return, if he wants to. 

“It wouldn’t make any difference, of course,” John tells him. “But you know that already.” 

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, then agrees. “I suppose I do.”

“Either way,” John tells him firmly, “we are going to Appledore. We’ll find out what he has on Mary, and then we’ll step back and watch him die, and then he’ll stop pissing on everyone and everything and we can all get on with our lives. All right?”

Sherlock nods. John is right, of course. And perhaps it _would_ be cathartic to see it.

*** 

It is Christmas Day at Appledore and Magnussen has no information. Nothing real, only knowledge of where he could acquire such things. In essence, it doesn’t matter: he is every bit as dangerous as he would have been before, only less useful because he has no hard materials for them to forcibly take from him. The only unfortunate part is that it has taken much less time for them to have made this discovery than they had planned. Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to think of what on earth to do until Mycroft and the back-up arrive. 

He hears John’s voice, following Magnussen out onto the patio, chatting and obviously trying to distract him and fill in the time. Sherlock follows them out more slowly, still thinking about John and the bonfire, and Magnussen’s smug, self-satisfied face as he’d watched John watch himself being rescued. He _is_ glad that John saw that it was he who pulled him out while Mary stood uselessly by, caterwauling John’s name but otherwise doing nothing whatsoever to help. (Had she wanted John to burn? Surely not. And yet his life wasn’t worth the flames, or else she had just used Sherlock’s presence to her advantage, knowing that he would go in no matter what, at any cost. Yes: that would be Mary, using the people around her to her own advantage.) 

John’s acting has improved tremendously. His “realisation” that there were no vaults was perfect, as was his urgent demand to know whether or not there was a plan for this event. Now he is facing Magnussen, shoulders squared in confrontation. “You just – know things. How does that work?” he asks calmly. 

Magnussen looks over at Sherlock as he steps through the patio doors, then turns back to John. “I just love your little soldier face,” he says, ignoring the question. “I’d like to punch it.”

Sherlock winces internally; he knows quite well how John feels about being called small. John stares back at Magnussen in defiant silence. 

“Bring it over here a minute,” Magnussen orders. 

John glances at Sherlock. 

“Come on,” Magnussen says. 

Sherlock feels his jaw tighten. (Where is Mycroft? Surely it is almost time. They have to stall Magnussen somehow.) Unwillingly, he nods at John, unable to meet his eyes. 

“For Mary,” Magnussen says, his voice silk-smooth. “Bring me your face.”

(Not for Mary, Sherlock thinks. It’s for _him_ that John is doing this. Because he said that he would stand between them rather than ever let Magnussen touch Sherlock again.) 

“Lean forward a bit and stick your face out,” Magnussen instructs. John clears his throat and shifts his weight but doesn’t comply. “Please?” Magnussen is chuckling. John stares back at him and does as he is told. 

“Now, can I flick it?” Magnussen requests. 

John makes a small sound of disbelief, lowers his face for a moment, shaking his head, then lifts it again, still defiant. 

“Can I flick your face?” Magnussen repeats. 

John leans forward, his jaw clenched, lips pursed. Magnussen flicks him hard with his long middle finger, making a hard thwacking sound against John’s cheek and Sherlock wants to scream. John doesn’t flinch, angling his face all the more defiantly at Magnussen, not breaking the eye contact. Magnussen flicks him again, and laughs. 

“I just love doing this,” he announces, then looks at Sherlock. Sherlock cannot meet his gaze for more than one reason. He hates that he is allowing John to do this for him. “I could do it all day,” Magnussen continues. “It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed.” Flick. “I know where to find people who hate her.” Flick. Flick. “I know where they live. I know their phone numbers.” Flick. Flick. “All in my mind palace. All of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and I will. Unless you let me flick your face.” Flick. Flick. Flick. 

Sherlock is aware that his teeth are bared, so angry that he could combust there on the flagged stone of the patio, and he makes a decision on the spot. No back-up men. Plan B is in. He _will_ kill Magnussen for this, for doing this to John. For everything he has done to both of them. But especially this. It is unbearable, watching him do this to John, attacking his very dignity in the meanest and smallest of ways. He might as well be urinating on him. 

“This is what I do to people,” Magnussen informs John. “This is what I do to whole countries.” Flick. “Just because I know. Can I do your eye now?” 

(Where is Mycroft?) Sherlock glances at the skies and tries not to listen as Magnussen begins to flick John in the eye. 

“Sherlock…” John says, and Sherlock can hear his resolve wavering. Can hear the silent _Do something_ plea. 

He hates himself for saying it. “Let him. I’m sorry. Just… let him.”

Magnussen looks at him curiously and John grimaces. “Come on,” Magnussen says to him. “Eye open.” He laughs as John exhales hard. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises.” 

Finally, a helicopter is approaching. More than one. (At last.) Sherlock waits, lets the scene play out, hears the real warning in Mycroft’s voice. (Perhaps there is surveillance on the patio after all. He realises that he does not care.) 

“No chance to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes,” Magnussen calls over the sound of the helicopter, and that does it. 

“Oh, _do_ your research,” Sherlock tells him. “I’m not a hero. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” He glares, hating Magnussen more than anything, and aims John’s gun directly between his cold, steel-grey eyes, facing them directly for the first time since the hospital. His jaw is clenched, his fury suppressing the shiver that wants to whisper down his spine. He is too angry for the trauma to get its grip into his skin. “Merry Christmas!” He fires. Magnussen flies backward and onto the stone and John recoils in horror. “Get away from me, John!” he shouts over the noise of the helicopters and the amplified voices as he raises his hands in surrender. “Stay well back!” John knows this; the plan has been reviewed over and over again, but he knows that John was always hoping that it would be someone else to pull the trigger in the end. 

He can hear the despair in John’s voice. Plan B was always the riskier one, at least as far as he himself is concerned. “Christ, Sherlock! Oh, Christ, Sherlock…”

“Give my love to Mary,” Sherlock calls back over his shoulder in reminder. _You have to keep her under control now. Watch her every minute._ “Tell her she’s safe now!” _Keep yourself safe until we know the next move._

He turns and walks into the blinding light. 

*** 

The plane lifts off. Sherlock adjusts his ear bud, careful to keep the motion out of the sight of the agent on board. This is the crucial moment. He resumes looking pensively out the window, waiting for the signal, for John to say their code word. The phone rings. The agent on board answers, then passes it to Sherlock. 

Mycroft’s voice is neutrally light. “Hello, little brother. How is the exile going?” 

Sherlock makes a faux-exasperated sound for the benefit of the agent listening. “I’ve only been _gone_ four minutes.” 

The call plays out as scripted, then Mycroft says sharply, “Wait: here it comes.” 

They both stop and listen to John and Mary’s voices coming through their earpieces. 

Mary sounds panicked. “But he’s dead. I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty!”

“Absolutely,” John replies, sounding utterly calm. “He blew his own brains out.”

“So how can he be back?” Mary demands. 

(Not precisely an unaffected response, Sherlock thinks to himself, hiding a smile as the plane turns a wide arc to come in for a landing.)

“Well, if he is,” John says, and Sherlock can hear, or possibly even feel him turning to watch the plane’s progress, “he’d better wrap up warm. There’s an East wind coming.” 

The code word. “There we are,” Mycroft says in grim pleasure. The instant Sherlock is on the tarmac again, Mary will be surrounded and taken into custody. John knows her better than anyone else, and if he believes the reaction to be indicative, there is reason to have Mary questioned. Mycroft will lead with the murder attempt and progress into deeper waters. Just as Magnussen had not, finally, needed anything concrete, neither do they. Only this isn’t blackmail: this is justice. 

The plane touches down smoothly, and Sherlock walks out. John is waiting at the end of the ramp. Their eyes meet and in that instant, Sherlock knows that John has forgiven him for Magnussen, for the flicking. For having pulled the trigger. He takes Sherlock’s hand in silence, and together they turn to watch Mary’s arrest. 

*** 

Sherlock pushes open the door and takes the stairs two at a time, satisfied that John has finally started allowing him to do this again, now that the wound is healed. He is aware that it is the twenty-ninth of January, a date of great importance, and he is somewhat hoping that John has forgotten. He bursts into the flat. “John?”

John comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands on his jeans, his whole face smiling in greeting. “Hi! What’s going on?” 

Sherlock gives him the bag of groceries he was told to buy. “Just making sure you’re home.”

“Where else would I be? Come here,” John orders, and pulls Sherlock in by the front of his coat to kiss him. He clearly meant it to be just a quick kiss in greeting, but Sherlock kisses him again after, deepening and prolonging it for several minutes, both hands on John’s face. When they finally break apart, John is breathing heavily. “Goodness,” he says. “What brought that on? Not that I’m complaining.”

“I missed you,” Sherlock says, not caring that it sounds clingy and childish and a myriad of other things. He is slowly learning to stop caring and just say what he feels and it almost doesn’t feel dangerous any more. 

John’s smile is worth it. “Come into the kitchen for a sec,” he says, taking Sherlock’s hand and pulling. 

Sherlock lets himself be led over. On the table there is a bouquet of yellow flowers – but not, as he notes instantly, poppies. “What’s this?” he asks. 

John goes to the vase and brings it over to him, putting it into his hands. “I thought you might be a bit put off by yellow flowers,” he says. “So I’m trying to redeem them for you. Since I know you’re interested in the Victorian flower meanings, I chose these particularly.” He glances at Sherlock. “I don’t know if you remember, but it was five years ago today that we first met, in Bart’s lab. I just wanted to give you something small to mark the occasion. We also have dinner reservations tonight at that sushi place on the thirty-eighth floor of Heron Tower that we wanted to try.”

Sherlock feels warm to the core; John _did_ remember. He keeps his eyes on the flowers so that John won’t see how deeply moved he is, or else he’ll never get through what he has planned next. “What do they mean?” he asks, touching a yellow rose. 

John puts an arm around him, standing as close as possible as he points. “Yellow roses stand for joy and friendship,” he says, “which you and I always had. Our friendship has been the most important thing in my life since the day I met you, and it always will be. Yellow irises stand for passion, which we have in addition to our friendship now, and jonquils are apparently the symbol of requited love.” His voice is gentle and full of that indescribable Johnness that Sherlock has no other adjective for. There doesn’t need to be one; only John has it. John goes on, turning to him without moving his arm. “I think we both loved each other for much longer than either of us even realised, and it’s still a miracle to me every day that we finally got ourselves organised so that we could do this properly. And now that everything is settled with Mary and Magnussen and the rest, all we have is – well – the rest of our lives. Assuming you’re amenable, of course.”

Sherlock’s eyes sting, his throat tightening. John’s words couldn’t possibly have been a better introduction to what he is about to say. He blinks, clearing his vision, and swallows. “They’re beautiful,” he tells John, and means it. He puts the vase back into John’s hands. “Take them from me for a moment.” John does, turning to put them back on the table, and Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket with one hand and takes John’s hand with the other. “I remembered the date, too,” he says, looking into John’s eyes. “And I also thought we should commemorate it. Maybe I should wait until tonight, but – I want to do it now.”

“Do what now?” John asks, eyes searching his. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and brings his other hand out of his pocket. He pushes the small box into John’s hand, waits for John to see it, for his eyes to widen, then slowly gets down on one knee. John’s eyes meet his, incredulous. “I know we have to wait for the divorce,” Sherlock says quickly, before John can remind him. “But after – will you?” 

John nods, swallowing. “Yes,” he says at once. “Of course. Of _course_.” His eyes are blinking even as he hauls Sherlock back to his feet and kisses him breathless, the box still unopened, clutched in his fist against Sherlock’s back. 

When John releases him, Sherlock points this out. “You haven’t even looked at it,” he says. “What if you don’t like it?” 

John shakes his head, smiling, radiating happiness. “I already know that I will.” He opens the box, revealing a plain, platinum band and shakes his head again. “It’s perfect.” He looks at Sherlock. “Will you wear one, too?” 

“If you like,” Sherlock says, secretly pleased by this. 

“Yes. I’ll buy you one. Should we have matching ones?” John asks. 

“I don’t care. Yes.” Sherlock changes his mind midway. 

“Will we have a wedding? Or – registry office some pleasant afternoon?” John wants to know. 

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says, meaning it this time. “You choose.”

“No: from here on in, _we_ choose,” John corrects him, nicely. 

Sherlock hesitates. “If we did have a wedding, we could let Mrs Hudson plan it.” She would never forgive him for not suggesting it. In retrospect he can understand precisely why she’d been so uninterested in helping with John and Mary’s wedding plans. 

“Perfect,” John says. “I hate wedding planning. But she would love that, if we got properly married. She’s always wanted to have her own ‘married ones’.”

“True,” Sherlock admits. 

“Let’s go down and tell her right now, shall we?” John suggests, looking hopeful. 

Sherlock smiles. He thinks of six months earlier, him freshly shot in the heart and John in virtual pieces and thinks of how much things have changed. He survived this, the shot, the trauma, the arrest. And John has, too, and somehow they’ve managed to build _this_ astounding, incalculably precious thing between themselves. Mrs Hudson will be over the moon. She’s wanted this nearly as long as he has. And he _has_ , ever since the moment he realised how he’d always felt about John, in the middle of his wedding to Mary. He’d known then that it should have been their wedding, that if John had realised at that moment that he’d chosen the wrong person and broken the entire wedding apart to ask Sherlock to run off with him, he would have agreed. Any time. Anywhere. Because it’s always been John, and always will be. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s do exactly that.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> As with _Vena Cava_ , I am once again indebted to wellingtongoose for this post, which I used as my primary medical reference for this story: http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/75415111199/how-sherlock-survived-his-heart-stopping-a

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "The Yellow Poppies" by SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227798) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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